Regression
by TheAlmightyCupcake
Summary: Sherlock's newest case has something to do with something terrible that happened to him in the past and when it's finally time for him to face his demons. John is right there to support him but does something that makes he himself betrays Sherlock in his own way by reading his most personal thoughts written inside his old notebook? Rape/non-con/hurt/comfort/angst.
1. Chapter 1

A new case came up Sherlock was acting on it nonstop. It started from last week and Sherlock had not let him in on any detail and it was starting to get on Watson's nerves. The blaring light from the man's desk at this hour at night. The constant clicks from pushing his pen. Watson had had enough. "Don't you ever sleep?" Watson nagged.

"Of course." Sherlock answered, knowing the true intention of John's inquiry and choosing to ignore it.

Watson rolls his eyes. "I meant aren't you sleepy right now?"

"I'm studying a case." Sherlock said. "Sleep would be nothing but a nuisance at the moment. You know the way I work Watson. Why are you asking?"

"Can't you turn off the bloody light for those of us who are _not_ nocturnal?" Watson asked annoyed.

"Very well." Sherlock turned off the main light. Watson sighed, about to settle down for slumber when he heard a click and a bright light shun through his eyes. He opened his eyes to see a lamp just as bright shining on the taller man's desk.

"Sherlock!" Watson growled.

"What?" Sherlock acted as if he was taken aback. "I turned off the main light."

"Yeah well I need that light of that lamp off to sleep—" Watson was interrupted abruptly.

"Funny, I need it on to read."

There was a moment of silence between the two until Watson finally spoke up. "You know you've been working on that case for a long time Sherlock. Take a break." He tried the reasoning route.

"I can't," Sherlock replied. "That's not an option for this one at least."

"Yeah but you probably would have been done by now if you'd let me assist," which was a statement that fell on deaf ears. Watson realized that the way the taller man usually solved cases had changed. What was so special about this one that Watson couldn't be made aware of? "Sherlock," Watson pressed on, "You do realize—."

"Spare me," Sherlock inputted. "Everything you're about to say has already been stated before."

"I didn't even finish what I was saying yet."

"You're going to tell me about all the bad effect to sleep deprivation. Perhaps, maybe expand on my inner psyche and how this will impair my judgment on the case, defeating the purpose of staying up."

"I was going to say…" Watson said trying to not show his annoyance at Sherlock's matter-of-fact tone at a situation that Watson was now starting to take seriously—especially knowing that Sherlock was going to take this as far as it could go. "That you do realize that staying awake this long isn't going to make the nightmares you're trying to face go away."

Sherlock looked up at him with a puzzled expression. Puzzled but intrigued. He didn't say anything back to the shorter man. He just stared.

"Your dreams will become a lot more vivid when you finally do go to bed." Watson paused to examine the Sherlock's face but found nothing out of the ordinary even when being called out on his own emotions—a topic which he never discussed with anyone but with the ghosts in his mind. This was something he was all too familiar with feeling himself. "I…had tried to do the same thing after I came back from the army. I'm only saying this because you've never done this before. This case may have reminded you of something that—."

"You're embarrassing yourself, John." Sherlock laughed bluntly.

"I understand how it feels Sherlock. When you're awake you try to avoid those thoughts by working constantly on a case. However, when you're asleep, there is no way for you to escape. You probably already know this…I'm just wondering why you're still trying. It has something to do with this new case doesn't it?" Watson finally got out

"Excellent observation." Sherlock commended, immediately going back to his work.

"Th…that's it?" Watson asked confused.

"Yes. Unless you wish to continue. I cannot guarantee that I will be listening, however."

"That is all you have to say? At least tell me if anything I said was true."

"Why do I have to do that?" Sherlock inquired.

"You're avoiding something."

"Yes John, and according to that logic, you are stretching out this conversation longer than necessary just so that you yourself can avoid sleep as well."

"You mean longer than you want it to be."Watson said. Sherlock didn't acknowledge his last statement. Watson sighed. "I just want to know…What it is you're hiding from."

"The answer is simple. There's nothing to know."

John groaned. "We've worked on several cases together Sherlock."

"Yes, but dissimilar to this one."

"How?"

"It deals with something that I hardly think you 'd be able to understand."

"Because I'm not smart enough?" Watson didn't ask, he was just confirming what was on Sherlock's mind.

"Because you're not me nor could there be any chances of you turning out to be me."

"Now you're just being cocky." John exasperated with a slight chuckle.

"Not at all Watson even though I have many reasons to be…" Sherlock paused then continued. "Take what I said in its literal meaning."

"You mean—?"

"Yes it is a personal case—something that has to deal with me. And the reason why you cannot help was highlighted in your analysis of the situation. There were two major errors in your deduction Watson."

"Them being?"

"The first is that I'm not hiding from anything." Sherlock's eyes never left the papers he was looking through.

"O come on—." Watson was about to say.

He couldn't say anything because Sherlock had beaten him to it. A little too quickly he replied "I'm not hiding from anything because I am already fully aware that trying to escape such is a thought only created by a mind that is unrealistically optimistic," to Watson's unasked question.

Silence.

"The second being that you wouldn't be able to understand if I were to tell you what it was for the mere fact that you wouldn't even believe a single word that I would say."

Watson looked at him confused. Sherlock noticed this.

"It is not like I blame you however. There are some things so wicked in this world that people tend not to believe and deny the possibility of the chances of ever happening. They turn the other cheek, unwilling to except it. Though you have witnessed many things at war, you still do not hold the mental capacity to fathom what it is I am talking about and not necessarily because it's worse, just know that it is something that you wouldn't expect to happen and so therefore you'll deny the possibility of such without giving it a second thought."

"Sherlock stop stalling," Watson asked. "Don't you trust me?"

"No," Sherlock retorted. "I don't. You're as brainless as the rest of them."

"Brainless how?"

"You will not be of any help to me." Sherlock said this with a voice that made his annoyance apparent.

"Tell me Sherlock…" Watson said, knowing that any moment he'll crack. "You know I'm not going to let up."

Sherlock sighed as he looked at his face. He knew that John would just keep asking. "If I tell you about the case, would you leave it be?"

"I can't guarantee that." Watson smirked jokingly but Sherlock didn't acknowledge it as a joke. His blue eyes bored into Watson and his smile faded.

"I attended an all men's boarding school throughout my high school and university years. It was the mixture of both. Very prestigious private school. My parents sought it as a place Mycroft and I could be at because of our financial problems. We had both received scholarships to attend there, a place where we were to study law and nothing else unless it was related to it. We didn't mind. It was not like we picked the career we wanted beforehand. He had left first before it became time for me to do such. My parents were probably glad I moved out of the house anyway—I was a troublemaker and I often told lies." Sherlock spoke extremely fast. It was hard for John to keep up.

"At first my brother was so protective of me…he would never let me out of his sight when it was my age to attend. I figured out the way the place worked quickly: the rich and were on top while people like who got scholarships and actually used their intellect was pushed to the bottom If they hadn't had the money, they would have never made it. It didn't take long for me to advance—I was four grades ahead in the time that it took someone to finish one of them. Then I advanced a few years up again when I was in his grade—my older brother's. I had stayed in his dorm room for when I had reached his level. I thought he'd be so proud of me…" Sherlock lips curled up slightly before diminishing into a deep scowl.

"He stopped being protective then. He then moved out of the dorm room we both resided in and left me alone. I didn't know why. I think I may have upset him. I became—," Sherlock paused as if he didn't know the word for it. Scared. Really scared." The fact that Sherlock used a word like scared startled John. "Everyone there was a lot older than I. Everyone there was a lot more wealthy than I. And everyone there despised the fact that I skipped many grades solely on intellect. They did not feel like I deserved to be there just because I hadn't paid my way to the top as they. I studied like mad because that was the only way I could get my mind off of it but they still nagged the back of my mind.

"But it wasn't this alone that frightened me. It was also their actual character." Sherlock said, eyes looking distant as if he was remembering every single detail. His clenched teeth showed a hint of anger.

"What did they act like?" John asked. This conversation had peaked his curiosity. He had never heard anything about Sherlock's past before.

"They were complete sociopaths. I had asked what one of them wanted to be when they grew up…he said God. They wanted to take down anyone that would get in their way no matter what."

"What does this—." Watson had thought of this as an opportunity to ask Sherlock another question.

"I'm talking try to keep up." Sherlock said quickly before returning to the story. "I couldn't relate to any of them. I wasn't their age and the few friends of that school I had began to avoid me. I hadn't known the slightest reason why until…"

"What? What happened?" Watson asked, trying to hide his anticipation.

"It was a guy named Moriarty. He started threatening me when I rose up in the ranks. He was there because he got in trouble with his parents and the only way that he could be expected to not go poor after they were done feeding him with a silver spoon was if he was one of the top 10 percent. He was peculiar; always exaggerating his words and his insults were weird. He hadn't frightened me like the others did because of that exact same reason. And he had the money. Lots of it." Sherlock took a long pause now.

"He, for some reason, had always commented on my thinness. He said that I was so thin, that if I wore a skirt and a wig that I would look just like a woman—one girl he knew to be exact. And he… also called me Shirley." Sherlock had coughed out the last statement. "However I never told my brother. I didn't want him to know what they called me. When my friends found out that he was also after me, they left me be so that they would not also be targets. It was weird—at the time I hadn't the slightest clue why people were so threatened by him."

"Sherlock?" Watson asked when the taller man hadn't spoken for a few minutes. "What did Moriarty do?"

"It was the day that they had put up the score sheet for everyone to examine and my scores had surpassed his, pushing him lower down in the rankings. He was angry…very angry. I remember him storming down the hallway, punching random lockers. The next day he and some of his crew walked up to me and asked—threatened—that I should fail the next test on purpose otherwise I would get what's coming to me. I said no." Sherlock breathed in when he was done saying it. It was as if he was holding his breath throughout his entire explanation. "That night, all eight of them broke into my dorm room. They removed my clothes and he put a wig on me. He forced a skirt on me. They called me Shirley." Sherlock choked. "And they took turns and raped me."

The atmosphere became extremely heavy for John and his muscles stiffened at Sherlock's last sentence. He had been raped? And Watson had been pressuring him to tell him all this time. "Sherlock…I'm so sorry–."

"Say that," Sherlock had snapped quietly. "And you're moving out."

"How come you hadn't worked on the case until now? Why now after all these years Sherlock?" Watson asked, his voice filled with sympathy.

"I got a lead on him last week." Sherlock said, regaining his seemingly apathetic composure.

"Last week?" Watson asked.

"Yes." Sherlock snapped. "Last week I found out that he was near this street and I wish you'd stop with that look of despair you're giving me."

Watson hadn't realized it but he was making a face that of sympathy, making Sherlock felt like he needed to be felt sorry for. He knew that he hated that feeling. "I'm sorry." He said. Then he asked "Are you trying to find him for revenge?" He asked the question low and slow, not knowing the reaction.

Sherlock stared. He said nothing.

"Or…is revenge too easy of a justification?" Watson asked.

"He's here…in this city. In this town." Sherlock said. "I have to find him."

"You're going to make yourself mad." John knew that he in no way could know what Sherlock was feeling, but he wanted to help. Seeing him slave away like this was painful to watch and now that he knew the reason, it only made matters worse. He didn't want Sherlock to end up driving himself insane over a scum like Moriarty.

"I'm perfectly fine." Sherlock knew his tone betrayed him but he still attempted to hid his true feelings by standing up and pacing as if his body had nothing else to do.

"Sherlock," Watson said, heat rising behind his eyes. He didn't want to cry but he was so close to doing so. "When was the last time you slept?"

"Don't ask me stupid questions. Vengeance is not the main objective here," Sherlock snapped.

"Then what is it?" John pressed on…but when he saw Sherlock's expression shift, he immediately regretted such.

"I…" Sherlock gulped, eyes darting around the room as he struggled to hold back his quickening breath. "I have to do this John. I have to prove to my family once and for all…they" Sherlock looked up, his eyes looking moister as he attempted to blink his feeling away. "They have to know that I wasn't making it up…I have to be taken seriously…that I was telling the truth."

"Oh Sherlock…" John's eyebrows creased with concern. "They didn't believe you? Is that why you thought that I wouldn't believe you?"

Sherlock tried to shrug it off to make his reaction seem indifferent. "I don't really blame them. No one believes a man that has lied and played tricks on many at times before. That is normal adaptive behavior of the human psyche—"

"Shut up you miserable bastard." Watson demanded from the taller gentleman, who surprisingly obeyed him. Then in one swift motion that contrasted with his words, Watson hugged Sherlock.

His whimpering soon became audible to Sherlock. "Why are you crying?" Sherlock asked in a shaky panicked voice. His body was stiff against Watson's. "It doesn't logically make sense to cry when no harm has happened to you."

"S'okay to hurt," John said, voice becoming unmuffled as he quickly stopped and let go of the tensed slim figure. He was surprised that John hadn't pushed him away. Sherlock nodded once, still breathing abnormally quickly. However, his eyes were John's main concern. Sherlock didn't cry. But they were wide with alarm. Was it because of the hug or because of what he had told Watson? Both? Was Sherlock used to such affection? Had no one comforted him about what had happened until now?

"I want to help you with this case Sherlock." Sherlock was about to open his mouth to protest but Watson interrupted him. "You can't go through this alone."

Sherlock nodded. Once

* * *

**THANK YOU ALL FOR READING! Please review...this story will be updated in no longer than 2 days**


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock hadn't gone to sleep until the next night. He had attempted to go 4 days without sleep. This case must have meant a lot to him. Sherlock had never cared about his body enough to actually be healthy but he cared enough about it to be functional enough to make rational decisions. He wasn't being cogent however. For once, his emotions had gotten in the way of his thinking.

However, John was glad that he finally went to sleep the night after which relieved the shorter man as he tidied up his work place. Sherlock had told him not to touch anything but John couldn't resist sorting through the clumped mess at the desk which highly contrasted with the rest of the apartment building. It was a pain to look at. Surely, Sherlock wouldn't be that upset if he rearranged a few things.

All he would do was rearrange the papers and stack the files neatly. That wouldn't really be the invasion of his privacy. Who can even work in an area this messy anyway? Even Sherlock Holmes needed to be organized.

Maybe this was all an excuse for John to get a closer look at what Sherlock has been working on. He couldn't help himself. The conversation earlier had made him worried and it seemed that this was the only way that he'd be able to find anything else besides what Sherlock chose to tell him.

All he was planning to do was sort the materials out and then go on. This was pretty hard to do since he accidentally knocked most of it over.

As Watson scrambled after the falling papers his hand bumped against something. Absent mindedly, he picked it up with the rest of the rubble and returned it back to the table. When everything was set and neat he looked at what it was. It was a notebook, about 2 centimeters thick with a leathery cover.

The cover had the initial SH embossed on the cover and when Watson looked on the inner cover of it it read: _Sherlock, we wish you well on your journey and this is a notebook for you to fill up daily. We love you._

Suddenly, the journal felt heavy in his hand when he discovered what was in it. This was Sherlock's personal journal when he was at the boarding school he had been talking about. He had no right to look at it let alone touch it and now it was open in his hands with a message from his family.

He wondered what Sherlock would have written in it all those years ago. Why would he have kept the notebook after all this time? It was completely useless unless it had something to do with the case, which was something Sherlock was now giving him permission to partake in. It had to be something case-related. Why else would it be here? There wouldn't be any harm done if he read it.

John was a lot better at convincing himself than anyone else. Slowly, he turned the page.

_I'm leaving today finally. I get to see and talk my older brother in just a few days after 3 years. I wonder how it's like there._

The rest of the page was blank so John turned it.

_The building looks a lot friendlier from the outside. They keep the building dim except for the classrooms, which have extremely bright florescent lights that washes out the color from everything in the room._

_The motto of the school is: Know Everything or Know Nothing._

_The administrators explained to us that they have blocked out everything that would stop us from getting to the latter._

_It sounds like tough love but it stretches way beyond that. There is no TV, books outside of educational, and computers are locked to the point that there could be no communication with the outside world. _

_They took away our cellphones…well…my family was always too poor to have one so I did not give them anything. When I told the administrator this everyone's eyes turned to glare at me._

_They asked how I could afford to come to a school such as this one when I couldn't even afford a cellphone. I told them that I had gotten a scholarship. Most of them didn't even know that that was an option._

_I didn't know how strict the rules were until now. I forgive my brother for rarely contacting me._

_I never written in a personal journal before…I always thought it to be quite pointless. But now that I know that this place holds no entertainment whatsoever, I made it an obligation for myself._

John felt uneasy when he was finished reading. Not uneasy because of the conditions of the boarding school, horrid as they were. He felt uneasy for reading into Sherlock's past. He still kept going.

_I'm starting to understand the culture of this place. The rich trample on the economically disadvantaged as well as the people actually smart enough to make it in here without extra bribing. Mycroft told me to lay low and not to say a word. They pick out the ones that draw attention to themselves. Well I only arrived in classes that are two grades higher than me…which drew plenty of attention towards me._

_I just realized something_

_I hate this place_

…

_I hate the meals which are basically the same with slight variants here and there. Always the same dry meat, stale bread, and watery soup and soggy vegetables—on a good day fruit. It took me a long time to get used to the diet. I had a weak stomach and throw up often…I don't remember keeping it down for a long time. I'm starting to become even skinnier than I was before._

_My ribs' impressions are deeper now…my skin is becoming paler. It's so cold. So cold._

John skipped over a few pages.

_I saw Mycroft today for the first time since I arrived. He looked well. He had changed however. He was very proud and somewhat arrogant but I never blamed him for it. He had a right to be. We both did. We were two that made it here without the use of money._

_He seemed happy to see me. He even noticed that I was thinner than I should have been.I told him about the food's affect on my stomach and he pitied me. So far he's my only friend._

…

_This school can afford real food…I know they can. They just choose not to use it. It's because they don't care about our well being. They don't care at all. Our lives are made to circle around books every single hour of every single day. Books 4 centimeters thick are excepted to be read in less than a week, a test coming on the following day. It would be okay if the libraries held something else of a different subject. Something other than what we were expected to learn…but it's always the same. Law._

_That's why they give us crappy food. That's why the temperature is always at 19 degrees celcuis._

_The ones that do leave have either "not tried hard enough" or had panic attacks with upcoming tests. Some—most can't take the pressure. _

_The dim lighting in the hallways and the extremely bright one in the class room are irritating. The only time that my eyes can relax are when we go outside which rarely happens._

_Are they scared that someone would run away?_

_It wouldn't surprise me._

_Their methods_

_It can drive someone mad…_

…

_I think I'm going mad_

_I have to get out of here._

_But I can't can I?_

_I have to stay here for years._

_God forbid I get used to this horrid routine. They're letting us call our parents tomorrow_

…

_I called them today and I was surprised the administrators didn't listen in on the conversation._

_I called them I told them everything about this place and they yelled at me._

_This was the exact opposite of the reaction I had expected. I thought they would take me back with open arms or at least comfort me._

_They called me a useless ingrate. That I only cared about myself._

…

_It's so scary here. I wish I had faked my grades in school so my parents wouldn't have sent me here. _

_I'm no longer complaining. They were probably right about me being ungrateful. Most people would have never had this opportunity. This was the only way we could get money and that they could live peacefully._

_Carping like a small child won't get them the future that they deserve._

…

John stopped reading and flipped through a couple of more pages. He was starting to get confused about why Sherlock had kept something like this for so long. The notebook was also scattered with random mathematical equations and notes from some sort of literature. John supposed that this was also used as a last minute note taking device when he didn't have anything else. How deep into Sherlock's mind could he get while reading this. He wondered. He kept reading.

_I find myself thing about my older brother. I hope he's proud of me._

_I wonder what Mycroft is doing at the upper-class dorms. Are the rumors true? Do they have better food and housing? He promises to move me in with him if I make it that high._

_I hope he does. It's so lonely here._

…

_Finally made some friends. Or maybe they just want to be my friend for test answers._

_I don't care. I hadn't talked to people in so long that anyone would do._

_The one that is closest to being my friend is Greg Lestrade however._

…

_I'm so hungry. My only diet has been caffeine pills and water that was smuggled amongst students to keep us awake longer so that we could study. This school has a strict no drugs policy. Even if we had headaches, we couldn't take any medications. It makes me wonder why the nurses are even here for._

_I'm scared of the authority here but I need to take these pills. They keep me awake longer so that my weakening body doesn't betray my test results. I HAVE to make it through._

…

_The few "friends" I have are noticing my thinness. They plan on smuggling some from the upperclass dorms which housed the university students._

_It was the first full meal I had in a long time. Their food was actually easy to stomach._

…

_The university upperclassmen students had noticed and they came down to our dorms to see who it was. _

_Lestrade took the blame for all of us. They beat him and when we tried to defend him they held us down._

_His screams were haunting. We couldn't do anything as we heard his screams muffled by chokes and gags._

_Those bastards. They beat him to the point that he could barely walk. The nurses stitched him and disinfected his wounds. They wouldn't give him painkillers._

_I apologized to him over and over again. It was my fault after all._

_He said that I didn't need to apologize. He wanted to help out a friend. He said I had so much more to live for._

_I wept. He gave me his handkerchief and told me to keep it. It was the only thing comforting about this place._

_He left not too long after that._

_I clutched his handkerchief in my hand, looking out the window. I watched his parents drive him away._

_I wish I had realized sooner that he was my real friend._

John let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. There was so much more that happened to Sherlock than he thought.

_Why had Lestrade given up so easily? He had so much promise. His scores were just as high as mine._

_It's this…place._

_They changed his will. Turned someone as optimistic as that fellow into an empty shell that quit._

_I'm so angry at everything and everyone. The stupid school's rules. My parent's heartlessness. The upperclassmen that beat on our section because we are younger. The rich from both sides that look down on us. My older brother for not showing up more often. And at Greg._

_I didn't want to admit it but I'm also angry at Greg. For being too nice to me. I don't deserve it. I hate him for leaving even though it was the beating that pushed him out._

_He was my only true friend. Now I just keep to myself, holding his handkerchief when I'm depressed._

_I was terrified after that. I felt guilt. After that moment I decided to shove the food down my throat quickly before I tasted it._

John noticed that there were a few pages ripped out of the notebook here.

_So it finally happened. I think I have gone mad…but in the best way possible. Keeping to myself and only focusing on my work. I had to leave this section. I studied long and hard to skip up to the university section and keep up once I'm there._

…

_I finally moved in with Mycroft. He doesn't look too happy to see me here. Come to think of it, we barely talked for a while. Maybe he's stressed out for the exam he has to take in the next few days. He did tell me one thing however. He told me to stay clear of someone named Moriarty. It was peculiar of him to be so worried so I listened and wondered who it was._

John stopped reading for a while. This was the first mention of Moriarty in this journal entry. It was lnger after the entries about Greg. How quickly had Sherlock advanced to the higher grades?

_Moriarty—that was his name. I keep forgetting. I met him for the first time today._

_I've met bullies here before but this one is peculiar. His eyes are always extremely big and he can never keep his body still. Whenever he talks he just juts his body forward, forcing himself into your face. I am not sure If I should take him seriously or not. The only threatening thing about him is the amount of money he has. Is that why the 7 boys are always behind him? Is money all they need to blindly follow someone like him?_

_I tried to listen to Mycroft and avoid him. But he's always following me even though he doesn't know me._

_He calls me Shirley_

…

_Mycroft moved out of the dorm rooms a few days ago._

_I don't know what I had done to offend him. Maybe he needs to study more. Maybe he's been stressed._

_I think I'm becoming bothersome. I never told him what they call me._

…

_The insults are becoming stranger._

_He always tries to make me seem feminine. _

_He said I was too thin for a teenager my age._

_He says that if I wear a wig and a skirt, I'd look just like a woman._

_No one defends me. _

_They're all a lot older than I. Why would they feel the need to defend me? I was their competition._

_I never saw it that way but I could tell that they did. Especially Moriarty. Our rankings were neck and neck._

_I wonder…_

_Does Mycroft also see me as competition and uses that as a reason to not be close with me anymore?_

…

_Moriarty's treatment of me is becoming more peculiar._

_When he hits me, it's not like how other bullies would hit._

_He hits my lower stomach and chest so that no one could see the bruises. He holds my chin when doing this._

_He had threatened me right before the next test came out. He told me that I would get something that I deserved if I didn't flunk it. His cartoonish way of saying it made it—._

John heard the screech of rusty door hinges opening. He instantly dropped the notebook and scattered the papers around, putting it under the cluster. He knew that he initially intended to clean them but now he felt guilty to the point that everything he did would seem suspicious.

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed. "Good Lord, you were only asleep for four hours. How are you even standing right now?"

To which the man replied. "Sleeping is boring."


	3. Chapter 3

It was 3 am when Sherlock had woken up. 4 am when he showered. 5 am when he ate. 6 am when he started working on the case again.

John was happy to see the man working less disoriented than the last night but he still worried.

"Can't you get a few more hours of sleep?" John asked.

"Mycroft's coming today," Sherlock said, dismissing John's request.

"Oh," John said, slightly surprised. "For what?"

"I need to know some stuff before I can continued with the case."

"Wait," John paused. "Does Mycroft know about it?"

"And what if he does?"Sherlock asked.

"I just thought that me being your partner and all—."

"Come now John, are your feelings be hurt?"

"No," John went red in the face once he heard the comment. "I was just wondering—."

"We both attended the school. I think he'd be able to help me a lot more if that was the case." Sherlock said. John didn't say anything as Sherlock continued. "But to answer your question, no. He doesn't know. The meeting today would reveal nothing of the sort. He would just think of it as a normal rendezvous between old brothers." Then he added pompously, "I bet you're happy about that."

Watson was frightened that Sherlock knew what he was thinking. He was so used to the man being disoriented for the past few days. It was nice to see Sherlock acting normal again even if it came with the risk of Watson's dignity being shattered.

So he hadn't told his older brother about the case, but had he told him about the rape that took place? John had creased his eyebrows and Sherlock seemed to take notice almost instantly.

"If you're wondering whether or not I've told him about the rape then the answer is no as well," Sherlock said. "You seem to be very needy when you want answers Jiohn."

John looked up surprised, dismissing Sherlock's latter statement. "You…never told him?"

"No." Sherlock shifted uncomfortably and lowered his voice. "You're the only person I've told."

"Really?"

"Don't flatter yourself."Sherlock snapped.

John was somewhat conceited about this. It was a selfish thing to be proud of, yes, but John couldn't help it. Those few moments of Sherlock telling him about his past made him feel a lot closer to the taller man. "How come?"

Sherlock glanced at John in annoyed puzzlement.

John quickly corrected himself. "I…I mean, how come you never told your brother."

There was a long pause. It seemed that Sherlock wasn't ever going to reply until he sighed. "I…never wanted him to know."

There was a long moment f silence before Sherlock continued. "I didn't want to be a burden…to him. I wanted him to be proud of me…not sorry for me."

John nodded slowly. There were so many things he wanted to say to Sherlock but he stopped himself. He knew that it would be inappropriate.

Moments later, there was a knock on the door and Sherlock went to go open the door. Mycroft stood at the other side, basically the same length as each other.

"Sherlock," he said with a smile, shaking the other gentleman's hand.

As the two conversed it became obvious to John that Mycroft was someone that Sherlock respected. He was straight forward with his responses and he was genuine about his smile. John guessed that all the rude and sarcastic comments were saved for everyone else. Even for him.

The two talked about random things until his brother finally brought it back to the conversation's true intentions. The boarding school.

"So Sherlock," Mycroft asked. "What did you need me for? You've never really called me for a meet up like this."

"Yes…" Sherlock said slowly. John could tell that he was nervous. "It's about the boarding school we went to years back."

"Ah yes," Mycroft said in reply. "Hell on earth."

John at that moment wanted nothing more than to speak up and tell Mycroft everything. He wanted to ask why he suddenly stopped protecting Sherlock. He wanted Mycroft to know that whatever "Hell" he had been through, it was no where close to what had happened to Sherlock. Not by a longshot.

He held his tongue, standing up to make tea for everyone in order to keep himself busy. If he didn't he would be afraid that he would say something he shouldn't have.

Sherlock replied to Mycroft's comment with a chuckle of consent.

"But the experience brought us here didn't it?" Mycroft said. "What about it?"

"Who do you remember from there?" Sherlock asked, obviously trying to masquerade his growing anticipation for he answers he was looking for.

"It was so long ago," Mycroft said. "I hardly remember. How come?"

John continued to listen to the conversation between the two men from the kitchen, trying his best to act like he was too preoccupied in order to do so.

"What about someone named Moriarty?" Sherlock asked.

"That odd fellow with the big eyes?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock nodded. "Yes."

"I just knew that he was in a few classes." Mycroft said.

"Well surely you remember more than that don't you?" Sherlock asked a little too quickly with an obvious hint of desperation.

There was a pause. "No," Mycroft began. "There wasn't much that I remember about him. It would help if I knew that real reason why you called me here." the older gentleman narrowed his eyes in a teasing manner and Sherlock relented.

By the time Mycroft had stated that, John had already finished passing out tea to everyone in small cups and sat down. Quite awkwardly. He sat close to Sherlock, feeling the taller man's body heat on him. John was surprised that Sherlock even had that amount of heat with his body so frail.

John could feel Sherlock's reactions next to him. The taller man had stiffened but was so good at hiding it in his face. "Just wanted to know more about the person you told me to avoid at that time. He's part of an investigation I'm currently working on." Sherlock was at least good at telling small lies.

Mycroft nodded. John wasn't really sure if the elder Holmes was convinced, but at least he knew that he wasn't going to push any further.

"All I know is that he had money. No respect for anyone." Mycroft answered the question. "That idiot had called me Mikey."

"He called you Mikey?" John asked before taking a sip out of the small cup. He had thought back to Sherlock's entry about what Moriarty had called him. He couldn't get it out of his mind because it was written in dark black ink on Sherlock's notebook.

"You never told me that." Sherlock tilted his head in playful suspicion.

"I haven't? Well without doubt I must have!" Mycroft replied.

"That name doesn't suit you at all," John teased.

"I don't think that being called Mikey is worse than being called Shirley." Mycroft teased with a chuckle.

At that moment, John felt Sherlock's body tense up again.

John felt his body start to shake. He looked over at the Sherlock and the first thing that he noticed that was out of place was his face. All of the color seemed to be drained out of it and his eyes became distant and he began to look sick. John looked down to see Sherlock's hand was trembling. Trembling to the point where his full cup of hot tea spilled come of its contents onto his trousers. And his breathing…He was getting worse.

"Sherlock?" Watson asked.

"I wonder what you put in the tea," Mycroft joked dryly.

Watson ignored him, placing down his own cup. He was trying to figure what was wrong with Sherlock. He placed the back of his hand to Sherlock's forehead, feeling his neck for pulse. His reaction seemed a little all too similar to the PTSD he himself has suffered.

"Sh…Sherlock?"

What could have caused him to have such a reaction like this all of a sudden? Then Watson was hit with the realization almost as soon as he asked.

"Mycroft," Watson said slowly. "How did you know that Moriarty had called him Shirley?"

Mycroft's eyes widened.

Sherlock put his head between his hands, the shaking becoming even more aggressive. His breathing was becoming audible.

"Mycroft, how did you know that Moriarty had called him Shirley?" John repeated, his tone a lot more menacing.

Sherlock was now mumbling to himself. They were words that John couldn't make out but it still pained him to see Sherlock under such a state of distress.

"Well…" Mycroft said slowly. "It seemed like a common—."

"You should stop that sentence midway before you lie to me."

"Mycroft…" Sherlock squeezed out between breaths as he looked up at his brother. "Did you know?"

Mycroft just sat there and stared back at the man .

"DID YOU KNOW?" Sherlock whimpered. "All this time?! Did you know?"

"It was. A long. Time ago." Mycroft spoke in sections.

John noticed that Sherlock was crying. No not crying. Sherlock was trying **not to cry.** Even with all the feelinghe felt at the current moment, he was still trying not to cry. He was trying to force himself not to let it out.

Sherlock was still trying to impress Mycroft. Regardless of finding out that he knew that Sherlock had been raped, he could still impress him by not letting him see Sherlock cry.

That was John's assumption on the behavior anyway.

"Why…" Sherlock whimpered through his attempts to hold back tears. "Why hadn't you protected me?"

"I was so close to graduating!" Mycroft screamed as if he was the one that should be the victim, his eyes were even wider than before full of fury and annoyance. There was not an ounce of guilt. "I couldn't have left the best opportunity of my life! I wasn't going to give it all up just because you were getting touched up a little!"

"Touched up…" Sherlock repeated the words absent mindedly, losing his breath on the last word.

"Sherlock!" Watson called to the man that was slowly starting to faint.

The cup Sherlock held finally shattered in his hand, piercing the skin of the still clenching knuckles.

"I made myself believe that maybe you hadn't seen everything that was going on…that you never heard them high fiving and bragging about the assault the next day in class… But I denied it. I denied it all…"

Sherlock heaved.

"You know why I denied this so much?!" Sherlock snarled through his teeth, tears strangled back by his diminishing will and that alone. "Because I didn't want to let myself believe that my older brother would purposefully turn the other cheek when he knew that I was …"

"I deserved to have a future and you were not going to ruin it for me! Everyone knew that you were going to be successful! My scores were not nearly as high as yours…Imagine, me on the same level as my younger brother of 7 years," Mycroft spitted the last statement out as if he was disgusted. "And you have the nerve to want to leave when I was trying to make something out of myself…something that you wouldn't have any problems with because you're a genius."

Sherlock doubled over, clenching his stomach as if he was in pain, and then collapsed onto the ground on all fours.

John knelt down next to Sherlock, checking every reaction he was making to make sure he was okay.

Sherlock was biting his lip so hard that he drew blood. It fell onto the floor. Sherlock didn't seem to notice for it seemed that he was having a headache.

"I had told mom and dad…you were there … you were RIGHT THERE," Sherlock spat between his teeth. "They didn't believe me… you never even tried to confirm it… even after you graduated you just sat there and watched them laugh at me."

"You didn't even admit to what they did even after your graduation?" Watson asked the elder Holmes, the obvious scorn lingering in his voice.

"There was no way anyone was going to believe that he was raped in a wig on in such a prestigious place. They had money and power!" Mycroft hesitated. "It would have been pointless to speak of it after it happened! You know this! Don't play dumb now just because you're a little butt hurt!"

"You shouldn't play dumb just to justify your actions against him!" John yelled.

Sherlock threw up again.

"Sherlock—,"

"Get OUT!" John screamed. This wasn't good for Sherlock and he knew that the man currently crumbling in on himself on the floor did not have the strength to say it. "GET OUT. GET OUT!"

Sherlock leaned his long thing body against Watson, sobbing until there was no more energy left in him.


	4. Chapter 4

John dragged Sherlock to bed. He hadn't known how long he had sat there comforting him. John tried making something for him to eat but he didn't touch his food. He only drank small amounts of water from the dehydration he was getting from weeping so much.

He had never seen Sherlock cry before. It was the most painful thing he had ever witnessed.

Everything Sherlock felt burned John's chest as he sympathized with the taller man. He wanted to say something to comfort him but there was nothing he could possibly say that could make the situation get any better. He just sat there, stroking his hair and hugging him until his body went still from exhaustion. By the time Sherlock was in bed it was only the evening.

John had stared at him as he lied there on the bed, body awkwardly sprawled out in the position that John had managed to put him in. He wanted to make him comfortable without waking him up.

He stood there leering at the taller man as his chest, which was once convulsing in the struggle for air, slowly rose up and down peacefully. He left the room moments after. He hoped that he was okay.

It was raining. The clouds darkened the outside sky with its attempt to soak everything on the earth. This didn't help the melancholy feeling of the complex. John had tried turning on the TV but it was cut. Along with the rest of the complex's electricity.

He sighed out of frustration and looked around for his flashlight, which he had always kept in his shelf.

He walked by the table where Sherlock was currently working on a case. The clumped mess on the table seemed to draw him closer. He looked through it and wondered if Sherlock's old notebook was there and snorted at his own stupidity at even questioning it.

John picked it up, the book looking even more eerie with his flashlight draining out the color from it compared to the dark surroundings. He opened it,continuing off of where he had left].

_His cartoonish way of saying it made me laugh. Of course I couldn't laugh while he was looking at me._

_When we get out weekly calls, I choose to talk to Lestrade. I think he's worth the one call. He picks up every time. He listens every time._

_I told him about how much I had advanced and how different the university section was from ours._

_I sometimes wonder how he's doing at whatever school he is at now. But I choose not to ask._

_I don't know why._

_Maybe because I already know that he's happier wherever he is now opposed to this recthed place._

_I gave up on calling my parents. Instead of filling those minutes with affection and optimism, they just tell me what I should or shouldn't do and yes them calling me an ingrate hasn't stopped. It makes me wonder the validity of the statement they have written at the inside cover of this notebook. Do they really love me? Or were they using that as a way to convince me to do what they want?_

…

_There was a huge black out today because of the terrible the storm. The generator only works on certain areas of the building._

_The classrooms_

_They don't work in the dorm rooms. No hot water and no reading tonight._

_I can not study today._

_I hope I can still cram something in by tomorrow_

…

_The scores were revealed. I passed Moriarty. I didn't look at him but I felt his huge eyes bore into mine._

_He walked up to me after class, shoving me against the wall._

_He did his signature caress of my cheek and chin and tells me how much I'm going to regret this._

_I pushed him away and walked down the hallway._

_I don't know why I'm so scared of him all of a sudden…it was something in his voice_

_Or maybe it was the blackout in the hallways that mad his face seem shadowy_

_But this time I was threatended._

_I have to go tell Mycroft._

…

_I searched for him everywhere and I couldn't find him until the very last moment it was time to return to the dorms._

_I spotted him with a group of friends that were laughing._

_I called out to him. His smile faded away almost instantly._

"_Sherlock…" he had said. He turned to his friends and told them to hang on._

_He asked me what I wanted._

_I hesitated. I had never expected this reaction from him._

_When I didn't say anything for a while he screamed at me to spit it out._

_Then I told him about the fight. I told him about everything. The threats. The staring. The scores…_

"_It's just a small fight…" Mycroft replied to me. "Things happen."_

_Then I was tearing up. I told him that I was terrified. _

"_This place is scary…Mycroft I want to leave. I want to get away from them."_

_I remember saying that. Or some variant of that._

_WHY didn't he listen to me?_

_WHY was I such a nuisance to him?_

_He seemed so annoyed. He didn't want to talk._

_I had screamed his name, pulling his arm before he tried to walk away from me._

_He grabbed me by my shoulders and shook me. He yelled at me. He asked me what my problem was._

_I was stunned silent._

_His friends had already left._

_He told me to never waste his time again._

_He left me in the hallway all alone._

_I ran back to the dorms before administrators came with their flashlights._

…

John turned the page and there was only a short paragraph.

_Lestrade has left. Mycroft is ignoring me. My parents don't care._

John felt the solitude with that statement alone. Sherlock was left all by himself with no comfort.

_The power was off. There was no way for the administrators to tell if we were actually in our dorms or not._

_They didn't know Moriarty left his. They didn't know that his followers left theirs._

_The only way they could possibly know was if they were in the hallways at the exact same time as one another with the flashlight pointing directly at them._

…

_The night was quiet and I keep hearing sounds down the hallway._

_I find out what it was quickly_

_Moriarty whistles my nickname_

_I try to stay quiet so that he wouldn't hear me_

John knew where this was heading and he had no intention on reading it. He skipped a few pages.

_They keep calling me Shirley. They keep saying what a good girl I am_

John felt nauseous when reading the statement. Over the next few pages, John tried to skip the detail of Sherlock's writings.

He understood why Sherlock still suffered so greatly. He remembered everything down to every detail.

_They took me to the shower to clean me off. They poured bleach on me…how they got it I don't know._

_They wouldn't stop touching me even as they scrubbed off the blood_

_The water so cold_

_and I never felt so filthy in my life_

…

_Mycroft please, I'm sorry _

_I'm sorry for whatever I did. I'm sorry that I made you hate me_

_Just please tell me what I did_

_I can't bear to be alone here_

_It hurts so bad_

_Please take it away_

_I'm sorry_

_I'm sorry_

John skipped the next few pages. The only words they had one them were repetition of the word "sorry". The writing became progressively worse and discombobulated.

Sherlock had been begging internally for the help of his older brother. The WRONG person.

The next few pages after that were blacked out with a pen, very intricately. The next he read:

_I washed my clothes by hand because laundry day was in a few days away._

_It's disturbing how easy it is for blood to be removed from this fabric, as if it was never there._

_That's the illusion I wanted to give._

…

_The lights have been out for two weeks. I can't call Greg. I can't study. I just sit here and wait._

_.… _

_I want them to stop_

_Why wouldn't they just leave me alone?_

John gasped loudly. It happened more than once?

…

_The pain is worse every time. They keep thinking of more demented things to do to me._

_I don't know the things they stick inside me. I don't look._

…

_It's the worst feeling in the world, waiting for light that never comes. The darkness allows things like this to happen. And in this darkness I'm the sole victim._

…

_I lay down, clenching my hand with the only thing that is keeping me sane_

_I get comforted by his handkerchief…it reminds me of him…my only true friend_

_I felt guilty…I had tainted it with blood_

John's eyes were getting tired from ready by the flashlight. His eyelids were heavy and he yawned. He walked over to the couch and laid there. It was still raining hard outside during the night but now it was accompanied with the booming sound of thunder. It still reminded him of the war, of the places he took in order to stay living. But that hadn't bothered John like it had before; he had slept through sounds of rain and gunfire before and painstakingly learned how to tell the difference between the two.

It did, however contribute to the fact that John couldn't sleep. He wasn't too eager to do so anymore anyway. The thunder had given him an adrenaline feel that glided along his nerves.

Since, there was too much on his mind, the only thing he could do now was listen to the sounds of the rain. It was so peaceful compared to the thunder that interrupted it—showing the true intentions of the storm. The water was not trying to supply life for living things. Rather It was trying to dominate.

John rolled his eyes as he thought this. He had always considered how dangerous it would be to let his mind wander off like that. It made him seem like he was emotionally unstable. He closed his eyes and just listened to the sound of the rain hammering on the roof and windows.

The rhythmic sound was broken by a clap of thunder, which made John almost jump off the couch with its subtlety. John looked up at the flashing sky that stretched out beyond the window as more claps of thunder made the complex shake.

John hadn't jumped from the thunder however, but from the sound that followed it. A scream.

It had frightened him because it had seemed so out of place in such a peaceful apartment complex. It was almost uncanny how abrupt it interrupted the mood of night.

He didn't know what had caused it but he knew one thing for sure. The screaming was coming from inside the complex.

Realizing this, he sat up in his couch immediately, all muscles in his body tense from his first encounter with the scream. He inhaled sharply, taking in the lost breath he didn't know he was holding .

Once John calmed down, he heard the scream again, only louder. Slowly, he stood up and walked towards the hallway, flashlight in hand. A big flicker of lightening came through the window, making eerie shadows stretch in the dark. John squeezed his hand on the flashlight, hoping he wouldn't find anything he didn't want to see as he rounded the corner to the hallway.

He walked around it quickly, pacing himself just in case something might jump at him. Another clap of thunder shook the floor, causing the scream to emanate around him. This made him hesitate to move on. The lightning flashed again, followed by the boom, slowly followed by the bloodcurdling shriek. The pattern became eerily repetitive. John made his way down the hallway where he heard the sound of a faint cry. It became apparent that the sound was inside this section of the complex. It was unmistakably loud and clear regardless of how it echoed throughout the apartment.

John ventured deeper into the hallway, enclosing the space between him and the source of the scream. Another sound of thunder came, directing her to the source. As he got closer, the sound of the sobbing was no longer faint. It was much louder now that he was out of his room and in the middle of the hallway. He then realized that the screams led up to Sherlock's door. The lightening flash made the door look sinister .

John knew where the screaming was coming from now… and he felt a convoluted mixture feeling of relief and of worry. It was coming from Sherlock. He was crying.

Why was he so stressed about a noise that was so common in this are? Sherlock had been around with rain and thunder before. However, he had never reacted to it like this.

Maybe the case was starting to get to his head. The notebook suggested everything taking place during a two week long storm when the power was cut off. This particular circumstance at this time was enough for him to envision everything once again.

John knelt down and looked through the bottom crack of the door. The only thing he could see from this angle was Sherlock's feet shuffling on the wooden ground.

John could tell that he was scared.

"Sherlock?" John asked through the door.

There was no response, only more loud whimpers that followed the sound of the thunder.

"Sherlock?" He called out again. John's heart skipped a beat when hhe saw his feet stop. John was nervous, yes, but she couldn't leave him like this all night. Another thunder clap roared, making Sherlock scream again.

"Please… stop crying Sherlock," John said, feeling stupid once the words left his lips. Perfect way to facilitate with someone that is currently emotional unstable for sure! Just tell them to 'please stop!' Idiot.

HIs whimpers at the other side of the door made John's eyes water. He resembled a weeping child.

"It's only thunder Sherlock." John said, rolling his eyes at himself for stating the obvious. He didn't seem to be helping at all and his heart ached when Sherlock continued his loud crying.

What could he do to help him with something like this? John thought back to the journal. Whenever Sherlock was under stressed or distraught, he would squeeze his old friend's handkerchief. It was the only thing that seemed to give him a placid feeling.

John reached into his breast pocket and then his back pockets. He didn't remember wether he had carried it with him or not that day. He finally found it in his right pocket.

He hurried up and and pulled out the handkerchief, putting half of it under the door with the other half in her hand. "Here." He wasn't sure if Sherlock would see it right away so he moved it around, trying his best attempts in calming down the fatigued man.

It was then that he had stopped crying loudly. He heard a sniffle which was closer to the door.

"Everybody gets scared sometimes." John said it thinking about the fear that thunder had once caused him when he had returned from the army. It reminded him of gunfire and explosions hot enough to burn into your soul. He shook every time he thought of it. Now, in a weird way, he felt someone sort of connection with this common fear. The fear of being brought back to the place where they were lucky to escape from. Acknowledging this, John came to a conclusion. The universe seemed to have a cruel sense of humour.

John waited for a while, his arms started to slightly cramp from resting all of his weight on them. He felt a feeling of deep sorrow when Sherlock didn't take it.

"Okay then," John choked out. "I'll just go." He said disappointed. When he got ready to stand up, he felt a tug on his hand. He looked down to see that Sherlock took the handkerchief. He smiled, face twitching as he felt a mixture relief and happiness. His emotions overwhelmed him and he couldn't control her tears.

John then heard Sherlock say something.

"Please…"

Watson didn't understand the rest of Sherlock's statement when he said that.

"What?" he replied, eagerly awaiting to hear what he was saying.

"John…please be real."

"Sherlock?" John questioned a little confused at the request.

John's heart sank with Sherlock's next phrase. "Please…be real…promise me that you're not a hallucination."

John was stunned silent for a while but decided to comply in order to keep Sherlock's distress down.

"Alright Sherlock," John whispered in his best soothing voice. "I promise."


	5. Chapter 5

John woke up the next morning to find out that Sherlock had woken up first. "Morning," John said as he sat up from the couch. He felt soreness in his neck and wondered if he slept in a wrong position.

Sherlock was half sitting half lying down on the other couch plucking at his violin strings. "Morning." His voice sounded scratched; it didn't surprise John. He had sat by Sherlock's door for the rest of the night, only standing up when the storm's sounds started to fade into serenity. Even though his screams were not as loud as they were before he had handed him the handkerchief, they were still ever so present inside him, trying to come out even as the taller man strangled them down by his attempts of ignoring whatever he was seeing. John wondered what terrifying visions plagued his mind in such a fragile state of mind.

"Is the power back on?"

"Yes"

The random sounds of the toning strings echoed through the apartment until Sherlock stopped and cursed.

"You okay?" John asked.

"I can't tune the strings."John looked down at his hand and saw his injured hand trying to nerve the strings. His long skinny fingers shook and Sherlock's face twisted in irritation."Oh! And my head's killing me."

"I'll get you some tea and pain killers for that. What about your hand?" John had bandaged it before he had slept the previous night; John stared at the clumsily wrapped bandage on Sherlock's hand. He wasn't proud of the lack luster job he performed on the wound, but it was the best he would do for the time being. Sherlock's hard breathing had been more of a concern than his bleeding. But now, as he stared at the bandage that was newly soaked by fresh blood, he wished that he paid more attention to the cuts which were still bleeding at an unhealthy rate. "It's still bleeding."

"Oh yea?" Sherlock asked.

"You didn't notice that it was still bleeding?" John asked incredulously.

"I thought it would stop sooner or later."

John rolled his eyes. Besides the wound on his hand, the taller man was perfectly fine. Sherlock had woken up this day looking great. Even his eyes, which were once swollen with tears, were now faultless as they stared back at John. It was such a perfect contrast from yesterday.

John stood up and walked over to Sherlock, kneeling down next to him as he examined his hand.

"Is it bad?" Sherlock asked, looking at neither the hand or at John, but at the violin he so desperately felt the need to play. He remembered Sherlock telling him that it helped him think.

John nodded. "You're going to need stitches, Sherlock."

"And?" Sherlock asked, prompting for more detail.

"We have to go to the hospital."

"Why?" Sherlock asked abruptly.

"What do you mean why?" John retorted.

"Is it wrong to be curious as to why we need to drive a few kilometers to a hospital when the person in front of me saying this is a licensed doctor?"

"It can't be done here," John replied. Truth is, John didn't feel comfortable penetrating his flesh with a needle and rebandaging him. Not here at least.

"John…" Sherlock said in a tone that showed that he wasn't buying John's bullshit.

John sighed, searching around the room for a needle and thread, ending the search at a small first aid kit.

"This is going to hurt." John warned, as he set it down next to Sherlock.

Sherlock stared at John, not saying anything.

"Okay then…" John hesitated and the large needle, which was curved to reveal its true intention, shook in John's hand as he held it against Sherlock's wound. There was only one deep wound on his hand and it slid down his palm. The instant it went through, Sherlock yelped.

"Sorry, sorry."

"Keep going," Sherlock gritted through his teeth.

John continued. For the rest of the stitching, Sherlock was surprisingly calm or maybe it was John's almost disturbing way of quickly blocking out Sherlock's reactions to the pain in order to get the job done faster. He had picked that up at the army. He wasn't necessarily proud of it but it was better than hearing the other man in any more pain.

John finished quicker than he thought he would. He released the jaw he didn't know he had clenched. The skin along Sherlock's palm was swollen and pink with the newly created stitches.

"John." Sherlock said, his voice seeming to caress the man's name as he packed up the utensils.

John looked up. "Yes?"

"Thank you," Sherlock said. He was still sitting in the awkward position on the couch but his other arm covered his eyes with his head tilted back.

"You know," John stated as he rewrapped Sherlock's hand with a fresh bandage., "You don't have to thank me Sherlock."

Sherlock took his arm off and turned his head to face him. "Why not?"

"You just don't."

"Don't people want appreciation when doing things for others?"

"Yeah," John replied. "Well…not when they really care about the other person."

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked.

"Seriously?" John asked with a chuckle until he realized that Sherlock was staring at him blankly. "There's just people out there that you care about to the point that you don't need their favors returned."

"Why"

"Why?" John repeated incredulously. "I don't know."

"There has to be a reason. There's an answer to everything."

"Well I'm pretty sure that the great Sherlock Holmes can find out," John retorted sarcastically.

There was a short pause. John sighed. Then Sherlock spoke again.

"How do you suppose I do that?"

"Holmes for goodness's sake—!" John stopped talking, voice becoming muffled so suddenly. John's eyes widened as he was taken by shock. And his face burned red from

Sherlock had kissed him.

Sherlock looked back into John's surprised eyes. "Isn't that the way people find out?"

John didn't know what to say or what Sherlock's intentions were when he kissed him. His face held a heavy look of curiosity and his voice accented his ingenuousness of the inquiry. John's mouth was held slightly agape, breath quickly escaping and returning as he tried to understand the situation.

He didn't understand why Sherlock had kissed him and he wasn't sure why his face was burning from his blushing. Regardless of what John Watson thought he felt, however, he had found his hand caressing the side of Sherlock's cheeks, thumb rubbing his soft lips gently before he leaned in to return the favor.

He kissed back, flushing as he saw the other man close his eyes with growing anticipation. He repeated the action, breath quickening every time his lips touched Sherlock's and kiss lasting longer every time it happened. Breaths were held, only breathed out when John pulled away momentarily to look into Sherlock's eyes before continuing. John couldn't stop himself. He felt a burning feeling grow within him every time their lips made contact and he painstakingly eased his way into Sherlock's mouth. Slowly, John's lips began to drift lower until it he reached the exposed skin of his neck. John began to kiss and suck on Sherlock's neck, smiling when he heard him.

As soon as he heard Sherlock's pleasures escape his throat, Sherlock backed away.

"Wait, John…" Sherlock breathed out as he inched his shaky body away quickly, mouth still open and slightly trickling with salivation.

John leaned in to kiss the man again, but Sherlock moved back even further.

"Sherlock?" John asked.

"John…" Sherlock's voice trailed off as his bright eyes, though the portal to his soul, averted themselves from John's as if he was ashamed.

"What? What is it? What's wrong?" John asked, his breath still hasty with its attempts to keep up with his body's desires. He lifted Sherlock's face with his chin and tried to look into the taller man's eyes, which were now glistening with tears. "Sherlock?"

"I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what—." John soon realized why. He finally backed away when he saw the bulge in the other man's pants.

"Sherlock, you don't have to apologize—."

"I…" Sherlock was embarrassed, yes, but Sherlock's face wasn't red with blush; it was pasty. He was completely mortified.

"It's okay Sherlock," John reassured.

He leaned in in an attempt to try to calm him down but Sherlock maneuvered around his endeavor. He was up from the couch quickly, panic still frozen on his face.

"I…I have to go."

John tried to call after him but the taller man wouldn't even acknowledge his presence as he hurried off.

Sherlock had gotten up and walked away before he could even apologize.

He sat there for a while, staring into nothingness as he felt the guilt start to ascend within him. "Damn it," John whispered harshly to himself. Had he gone too far? Why did he have to be so aggressive? He felt like he had taken advantage of Sherlock's move, going further than he had expected for his own pleasures. His fears of being shut away by Sherlock were being revived again. He was scared that this would be the first and also last time he ever got that close.

John decided that he needed to leave—at least for the time being. He no longer felt comfortable here.

John left the apartment with the easiest excuse he could think of; He went grocery shopping. He tried to take his mind off of things. After a long time of walking around in grocery shops without the real intention of actually buying anything, John returned back to the apartment complex with nothing but milk.

He was tired.

To his surprised, Sherlock was in the living room again looking through his case at the table. Another gentleman was sitting on the couch looking through stuff that seemed case related. Each had their own cup of tea set before them as they worked. John scanned both areas in an attempt to search for the small journal. Surely, Sherlock wouldn't have left it out in the open with another visitor present. In fact, the only reason that he was able to read it was because Sherlock had pushed himself to the point to where he was extremely disoriented. Now that he was more focused, John doubted that he would leave the book just lying around. Sherlock must have hidden it away once again when he woke up earlier this morning.

Then a thought hit John's mind: he wouldn't be able to read it anymore. Everything that Sherlock had in his mind was locked away in the only source John could find it. Now it was hidden.

A cellphone's ring interrupted John's thoughts.

"Sorry," the man said, standing up. "I have to take this." The man got up and left, hurrying as he put the phone up to his ear.

John walked over to Sherlock sluggishly. He was still tired from the previous night but he had still chosen to walk around town for no apparent reason. Now he was paying the price for it. Sherlock's eyes seemed to be transfixed into the papers he was looking at which was a dramatic contrast from earlier. John was beginning to envy Sherlock's ability to transform his emotions.

"Hello John," Sherlock said, looking up from the papers momentarily before continuing. He then asked. "Where were you?"

"I got milk."

"For two hours." Sherlock said with a tone that highlighted its ridiculousness.

"I…there was no need to rush."

Sherlock nodded indifferently, shuffling through other papers.

"Who was that?" John asked, pointing in the direction that the man had left.

"A friend." Sherlock answered indifferently, mumbling something else to himself.

"What kind of friend?" John asked, very well aware that he was interrupting Sherlock's thoughts.

"A friend friend," Sherlock replied more hastily. "What other type of friend could he be?"

John opened his mouth but was interrupted before he could speak.

"Wait, don't answer that," Sherlock said as he held up his finger.

John rolled his eyes. "It would have been nice to know that we were going to have a visitor."

"I had told you."

"You did?" John asked, doubt lacing his voice.

"Yes."

"When?"

"This morning."

"Oh?" John said slightly annoyed. "You mean those points in time you mumble to yourself and expect the other person to instantly understand what you're trying to say?"

Sherlock nodded, looking through his work half ignoring John's inquiry.

John sighed. "I just wish you'd stop being around the bush once."

There was a long pause before Sherlock sighed and set some of the papers down. "I'm sorry John. I will keep that in mind next time."

"R…really?" John asked right when the words hit his ears.

"Yes."

John continued to stare at Sherlock for a few moments before the taller man suddenly noticed.

"What?"

"Nothing," John replied. "Just wasn't expecting that response."

Sherlock tilted his head. "What response were you expecting?"

John shrugged awkwardly. "I don't know. Not _that_."

Dismissing John's comment, Sherlock stated "His name is Greg Lestrade, a friend of mine from boarding school, currently an inspector with new Scotland yard, and someone that is coming soon at the door in three…two—."

"Sorry about that," Greg said, walking in as if on cue. John examined him. So this was the person that helped Sherlock? He had a soft smile and dressed the same as his posture—sharp.

"Something at work?" Sherlock asked.

"Yea," Greg answered "Been busy. I'm actually surprised I was able to make it."

Sherlock nodded. "Sorry to contact you on such a short notice. I just need your help on something."

"No problem. Anything for a friend," Greg replied. "Did you find it?"

"I can't seem to find it here. I'll go check the other room." With that, Sherlock left to go to the bedroom.

John didn't know whether or not they were working on the same case but it was apparent hat he shouldn't keep asking questions mainly because he didn't want to annoy him. He felt somewhat unwanted in the scenario that was before him. Greg was looking through papers that was said to be off limits to him previously or maybe they were part of something else; John didn't know.

He couldn't shake the feeling that he had walked into the middle of something. He found himself awkwardly walking up to Sherlock's friend, putting a smile on with more than usual effort.

He went to go sit down next to Greg. "John Watson," he introduced, stretching out his hand.

Greg looked up, shaking his hand. "Greg Lestrade."

The two started shuffling with an uncomfortable moment of silence that followed the handshake.

Finally John decided to ask a question. "What do you consider Sherlock to be?"

"A really close friend," the gentleman replied without hesitation. "I instantly became friends with him at school."

"How come?"

Greg shrugged. "I could tell that he was different from the other people that attended."

"Different how?"

"He didn't buy his way to the top like all the other rich bastards." His voice held a tone of resentment. John nodded in response. "I mean I could only make it in through the amount of money my family had however we could barely afford it. But people like them…they always look down on the rest of us, especially those that possess the talent they think they can buy.

Greg took a sip of tea, "Think they can rule the world, do whatever they want, and never get repercussions."

"So that's why you smuggled food for him," John said with a smile. He was starting to grow a liking to Greg because of the way him and Sherlock had gotten along.

"Excuse me?" Greg asked slightly confused.

"At the boarding school…you guys smuggled food for him," John said, making sure he remembered the details in the journal correctly. He couldn't make himself forget most of the things that were written in it anyway.

"Oh yea!" Greg chuckled, face sparkling with a sudden reminiscence. "I'm surprised Sherlock told you that."

John swallowed the lump in his throat that grew with Greg's statement. He realized that Greg had every right to be surprised. Because Sherlock hadn't told him. The event was information he acquired by snooping through Sherlock's personal journal

"You should be flattered," Greg joked. "He doesn't really tell anyone anything."

"Really?" John wondered.

The other man nodded as he took another sip of tea.

Sherlock had not told him anything else other than the actual event that led to this case. He wondered how much information he told Greg. Well, of course Greg knew. He could make that assumption without even asking. Greg had known him longer. And every time that Sherlock could, he would call him while he was…there. But John was curious as to what Greg knew about him apart from the tragedy—apart from the boarding school.

John wanted to know it all. His regular fears. His favorite color, food, etc.

John had attempted asking such when he and the smart mouth detective first met but instead of a simple answer, he went into a long dialogue describing how favoritism only exist in minds of…and john trailed the rest of his statement out. He was sure that the man that sat next to him knew all of it however.

He would be lying to say that he didn't envy the man's closeness to Sherlock.

John cleared his throat"So what… has he told you?"

"Well," Greg began. "Just—."

"Found them." Sherlock announced as he walked into the living room, holding a few files tucked under his arms. Greg's phone started to ring again, making him stand up in a rush.

"I'll run a check on these," Greg said as he received the files in his hand, picking his phone with the other. "Now if you excuse me, I have to get back to work before I really get it."

"You're still late to everything." Sherlock smiled.

Greg laughed. "It's uh…been a long time hasn't it?"

"It has." Sherlock's lips curled with his feeling of nostalgia. "Some things never change."

The two stood there for a while, briefly recollecting. Then he walked to the door. "Take care Sherlock."


	6. Chapter 6

The next day, Sherlock had rushed out of the complex frequently in order to meet up with Lestrade for new leads of the case; Sherlock hadn't told him but he drew that inference from the emptiness of the complex when he had waken up.

John cursed silently to himself but wasn't sure as to why he was surprised. Sherlock was always one to leave whenever it suits him fit when it came down to a case. However, this particular incident had made him more worried than the last.

Sherlock had not been eating normally nor sleeping which wasn't unusual for the detective but was disturbing John for a reason he couldn't quite put his finger on. Sherlock would stay awake for days in a row and then the next few he'd be mostly asleep. John often found him talking to himself in a manner that wasn't in resemblance to the normal way he deduced things.

Another thing that he noticed was Sherlock's hands; they were always shaking. It was similar to the time that they had worked the case of the hounds in Baskerville. But instead of that last time, he decided to keep his concern to himself. The last thing he wanted was for Sherlock to go off on him because of it.

In all honesty, part of the reason stemmed from his own PTSD. It was slightly triggered by it.

John's mind wandered back to the notebook. He remembered it not being there when Greg was around, but he highly doubted that Sherlock had actually went out of his way to hide it. After all it was only Sherlock and he that spent majority of the time in the complex. And Sherlock didn't know that John read it.

John went to go check up on the area it usually was when Greg wasn't around and sure enough, it was at the desk where all the other papers were laid. It had been a while since he last read it and the guilt from going through Sherlock's personal belongings was renewed. However, in reading it he felt that there was a way they could connect thought he couldn't find that particular way yet.

_I have to clean it daily. From my bed sheets. Blankets. Trousers. Shirt…how did it get there? I never knew how mysterious the liquid could be. It shows up everywhere. Though it comes in the tiniest of splotches it's still there. I tear notebook pages. I rewash. It's winter now and every time I try to hand wash my clothes my hands get dry and cracked to the point that I can barely take down my notes. The extremely watered down lotion does little to sooth the pain._

…

_I see Mycroft from time to time. I want to go talk to him but he doesn't want me to bother him like I did last time when he was with friends. But he's always with friends so I can never talk to him. Sometimes I wonder, does he truly really hate me?_

…

_The generator started working. I thought it would make things a lot easier. I thought that this would make them too intimidated to walk out at night. Oh how wrong I was. The blackout made it obvious to them that all the threats about the administrators being able to monitor the halls at any time were a lie. It was just a way to keep them locked in their bedrooms until 4 in the morning. I hear them coming for me. And now it's worse. Now I can see what they do to me._

…

_I can't take it anymore. The pain is too much. I'm getting myself kicked out. I have to get myself in trouble. If I leave everything will end. The pressure. Mycroft ignoring me. The rape_

…

_My parents beat me when I got home. My dad would whip me with the notch of his thick spiked belt while my mom played the piano so that she wouldn't hear me. But she wasn't trying to ignore my screaming. She was trying to ignore my laughter. I had been smiling the whole time while my father tried to hurt me. No matter how much they beat me or yelled at me for leaving I still smiled._

_Because I was far away from Moriarty._

_He can't hurt me anymore. _

John decided that it was enough reading of the passage that day. Particularly because of the detailed diction on his close encounter spiral into insanity. The next few pages were filled with the repetition of words. And more scribbles. Scribbles so intricate in detail that it made John shiver. He had seen the same type of markings in Army journals of people he treated. Nothing rational. Just lines that only made sense to the person who wrote them. They were cries of help that no one could decipher and that, in a way, disturbed him more than the previous content.

So John spent the rest of his afternoon tidying up the apartment, watching the tv and lastly, choosing to take a nap only to do so after his lack of effort to try to do anything else.

When he wakes up he instantly knows that Sherlock was at the complex. For one, John had slept with the tv on. The second being that his scarf hung on the coat rack.

He treaded the hallway, stopping to use the restroom before walking by Sherlock's room. He heard him on the phone but the door muffled any direct contact with John's ear and the content of the conversation.

When Sherlock got off phone, he walked out into the hallway, half surprised, half happy to see John. He could tell by Sherlock's half smile. It was the best anyone could get from Sherlock. If he wasn't going to go out of his way to smile a complete smile at someone, then the person would have better had been happy that he put the effort into going half way.

"Just got up?" Sherlock asked.

"Just got home?" John said in return.

"So yes for the both of us." Sherlock walked down the hallway and sat back at the desk.

"Was that Greg?"

Sherlock looked at him puzzlingly.

"On…on the phone. Was that Greg?"

"Funny how you knew I was even on the phone in the first place," Sherlock said in reply. He didn't look offended. John could tell that it was one of Sherlock's attempts at jokes.

It still made John blush. "Well I was just passing by…" John trailed off when Sherlock's eyes became sharp in their gaze.

Sherlock stared at John and nodded once, walking over to the table of papers.

John, then realizing that this was the first conversation they have had all day, offered. "Dinner?"

"Yes."

"What do you want to eat—." John began

"Not hungry." Sherlock said.

John abruptly turned around and looked at him puzzled. "But didn't you just say—?"

"I meant yes that was Greg on the phone."

John stared at him.

"I actually ate today so you don't have to worry about me starving all the time," Sherlock replied.

John slightly flushed when Sherlock knew what he was going to say. John, however, had every right to think such. Sherlock had not been eating like he was supposed to. Whether if it was because of stress or his thoughts going rampant again, his protruding bones became a constant subject of worry.

"Yes," John said sarcastically. "And I suspect that you ate everything in the fridge and then bought the replicas that completely resemble it."

"Greg bought some food while we were out on the lead. He basically said he'd shove it down my throat if I didn't eat. I guess _you're_ not the only one worried about me." Sherlock said the last sentence in a tone that seemed incredulous at the fact that people cared so much for his well being.

The relief that he actually did eat, quickly left when the feeling of envy arose. Over the past few days, he had been trying to convince the taller man to eat something to no avail. He wondered how much Greg had to prod at the subject in order to get him to consume something. It seemed that Greg had the ability to influence Sherlock better than he ever could and that bothered him.

He couldn't help but feel offense towards this. He had no problems with Greg; he seemed like a nice guy. But he couldn't shake the slight resentment he felt at being. He nodded back at Sherlock, looking through the drawers for something he himself could eat.

Sherlock, confused by John's sudden change in expression, said "Thanks for the offer?" he said in an attempt to fix whatever it was he felt he did wrong.

John couldn't resist the smile at Sherlock's innocent misinterpretation of John's reaction.

"So what were you guys talking about?" John asked as casual as he could.

"When? During todays phone call or yesterday? You know what never mind it doesn't matter. To answer your question it was nothing of importance."

Sherlock had gotten back to his usual way of fast talking which opposed his confused mumbling from yesterday. John couldn't find anything to say before the taller man pasted a forced smile.

John didn't even try to make his tone sound indifferent. He knew all too well that his voice would show his true feelings, regardless of what attempts would be made to hide it. It hurt him how much Sherlock wasn't telling him even though he was pretty sure that Greg knew everything he didn't.

"What ever happened to not being around the bush?" He asked as he stared at Sherlock's still shaking hands.

It bothered him the longer that Sherlock's hand never stopped shaking. It was something that deeply troubled John.

It seemed to make his worry worse. Why wouldn't Sherlock tell him what was going on with the case, with his mind, with his hands?

Catching a glimpse of this Sherlock sighed. "You're upset with me."

He didn't ask…he just stated it.

"Not upset." John said hesitantly as he tried to confirm his own feelings within himself. "Just—."

"John," Sherlock interrupted. John looked up at him, however, Sherlock was not looking back.

It was a long pause before he spoke again. "I don't tell you as much as I should. I blame it on it being useless information or I blame it on a lot of things. Truth is…I want like you seeing me that way."

That was the closest thing to an explanation that John received for the moment but he didn't mind. Given the fact that it was one out of the many spare times Sherlock told him something of that manner, he smiled.

This sudden change in Sherlock's tone made John want to ask something that was scratching at the back of his skull. He stood there awkwardly until Sherlock turned to look at him.

"Just say it." Sherlock had said, looking through the papers again.

"What?" John asked.

"Something's bothering you. You've stared at me periodically for the past few minutes and whatever it is that you're trying to tell me makes you take brief hesitations shows quite how much of the subject is of importance to you so I suggest you say what it is now."

Sherlock looked up at John during the last statement, making him relent quickly before trying to deny it.

"The other day…" John began, studying the other man's face as he said it.

"Yes." Sherlock looked up at him, acknowledging his words. "What about it?"

John gulped before continuing. "If I went too far—."

"You didn't." Sherlock interrupted.

John paused in shock before continuing. "But you...what happened—the way you reacted…"

"Yes, we kissed and I had gotten aroused, panicked, and walked away. You shouldn't talk if everything you say is going to state the obvious or need I remind you who kissed who first?" Sherlock said quickly and sharply, the same way he talked when he was deducing something. It made John feel less cautious about choosing his next words.

John sighed. "I made you feel uncomfortable."

"No," Sherlock said. "No you didn't."

John sighed in relief once hearing the reply, but decided not to get his hopes up when Sherlock's fear of the events yesterday busted through the back of his mind again.

"So…" John said, swallowing the growing lump in his throat when the anticipation of the question had risen. "Why did you react that way?" John asked slowly. "I mean… you didn't mind kissing. In fact, you did it first."

Sherlock was now sitting on one of the couches, hands together against his lips. "They hadn't really kissed me. Not really." Sherlock replied more to himself than to John, calmly but fast. "It was because I had never felt the way I did before…willingly.

John didn't fully understand but still shivered when he recognized what Sherlock meant by the word they.

"I'm sorry." John said with sighing.

"Don't apologize, John. I had just wanted to try things…" Sherlock lingered on each one word.

"Ok," John drawled out slowly, trying to pick the right words. "Exactly what kind of things?"

"Just… things," Sherlock basically spat out as if he was surprised that John didn't get the hint of what Sherlock wanted. In a cute way Sherlock got more frustrated at John's confusion to the taller man's request. "John—!"

John kissed him on the cheek without any warning. "Is that it?"

Sherlock didn't reply. He just stared. At first John was scared that he made the wrong move.

Sherlock's eyes had slightly widened and his shaking hands lowered. Sherlock stood, looking at John.

The taller man returned the favor. It was long before they're kissing became more intense, movements, but subconscious up until the point that John realized that he had Sherlock up against a wall.

Sherlock paused, pulling away abruptly, something that was similar to yesterday's events.

"John—." He breathed out momentarily before John's mouth enclosed his once more.

Sherlock pulled back again.

John looked down to see his bulge through the man's pants. "John I…" his voice trailed off.

"Shhhh I know.," John whispered into his ears. "It's okay Sherlock." He said it with as much sincerity as he could. He stopped, breath already quickened from the previous impacts their mouths had made. He decided not to make another move until the panic from Sherlock's face had completely subsided from his features to avoid the chilly reaction from the last time.

It was then that John had brought his hands from the other man's face, gliding it down so that his hands could fondle his long and lean torso before grabbing his hands. The smooth fabric of the shirt seemed to hug his pale skin. Even though he could feel his body from the outside of the shirt, John wondered how it would feel to touch Sherlock's bare skin through the fabric under his shirt. He hesitated at first but proceeded when Sherlock leaned his body into John's. John put his hands under the bottom of Sherlock's shirt. He felt his fingers tingle as he glided them along the ambiguous sculpting of his torso.

He kissed him as he did this, eyes closing through the passion that was rising in the pit of his stomach. He felt Sherlock shift in front of him, feeling the kiss break. He opened his eyes to see Sherlock's hand's fumbling with the buttons on his own shirt. When he saw John looking at him he paused.

"Is…this okay?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah," John nodded, trying to hold back his smile at the innocence of Sherlock's inquiry.

He realized that Sherlock was sweating. The crystalline liquid sparkled on his milky skin like jewels. He was beautiful.

John was uncertain about removing his own shirt as he admired the magnificence of Sherlock's long and thin frame which was irresistibly now exposed out of the covering of the burdensome shirt.

Slowly, he lifted his own shirt over his head. He instantly felt nervous as he exposed himself. The cold enunciation of the air didn't help much either. When he looked up to see Sherlock's reaction, he found out that the taller man was closely examining him closely. His eyes were slightly slit and his head was tilted. John wondered if he had had the same expression on his face when Sherlock had primarily taken off his shirt.

The moment was starting to become even more awkward as the two stood there in silence.

It was then, while John looked at his body, that Sherlock spoke.

"John, I don't want to have sex."

John blinked at the abruptness of the statement. "E…excuse me?"

"It's going to hurt isn't it." Sherlock said. John felt an eerie feeling creep over him when Sherlock said this. It was as if Sherlock was waiting for John to confirm it. He felt that there was no other way.

John He then said. "What is?"

"W…when going inside." The words that Sherlock said rang in John's ear, haunting him further.

"Why are you saying this? Where is it coming from?" John asked rapidly in a fit of discombobulation.

Sherlock looked puzzled at this. "Isn't this what happens before most people have intercourse?"

"Sherlock," John said, face turning red. "For goodness's sake…" he said more to the fact that he knew that heat rising to his face was evident than to Sherlock. John had all of a sudden felt embarrassed. He couldn't pinpoint the reason, however. It was as if he was caught in the act of doing something wrong. Maybe he wasn't as aware 0of his intentions as he thought he was.

"I just wanted to clarify earlier when I said 'things' it did not include such a transaction." Sherlock said, pursing his lips.

"Sherlock I never said that we were going to have sex." John said. "But—."

"But? You said but! So you _do_ want to have intercourse?" Sherlock asked in an accusatory tone.

"No Sherlock. That's not what I'm saying—."

"So you don't want to—?"

"Sherlock, stop," John said, letting out a breath that he hadn't realized he had been holding. The statements had made him feel very uncomfortable. John's intentions the entire time had been ambiguous in nature and in all honesty, his mind didn't linger too long on the thought of sleeping with Sherlock even though it was something he hadn't negated.

Sherlock's squint deepened, but not out of anger. John could tell that Sherlock was just confused about everything that was going on. He decided to slow down again for Sherlock's sake.

"We don't have to do anything you don't want to Sherlock." And he really meant it. Sherlock's ambivalence was making John feel uneasy; he wanted to be made clear of what Sherlock wanted."We can stop right now."

Sherlock looked back up. "I never know the way my body would react to things." John could hear a hint of frustration in his voice. It was as if Sherlock was trying his best to avoid something deep inside. "I never did."

John could tell where Sherlock's thoughts were wondering to and he wanted to speak up before Sherlock's eyes went distant in the resurrection of his painful memories.

"We can just keep kissing if you like. We don't have to go any further."

John studied Sherlock's face which was still creased in confusion. John gulped before saying, "I don't have to…do _that_ in order to make you feel good."

Sherlock did nothing but stared. He pursed his lips and looked to be in deep thought.

"Sh…sherlock?"

There was a long pause. John was starting to get more confused than uncomfortable.

Was that the way Sherlock felt about sex? He felt that pain was inevitable? Anger rose up within him. He clenched his jaw as he thought of the way they hurt him—what could they have done to Sherlock to twist his mind into thinking such tainted thoughts?

"You don't?"

"All I have to do is…touch you." John said awkwardly, as Sherlock's bright eyes bore into him for an explanation. He quickly added, "Only if you want," when he saw Sherlock's slight puzzlement. It was awkward to explain something like this to someone like Sherlock but he felt that the fact that both of them were already shirtless made it all the more perplexing.

"Oh. Then do it." Sherlock said.

John blinked at how sudden Sherlock said the statement. "What?"

"Do it." Sherlock's indifferent tone was highly contrasted to his past statements, making John hesitate.

"What…Are…Are you sure?" John asked hesitantly.

"No," Sherlock replied bluntly. "I'm not."

John stared at Sherlock's reaction.

"But…I trust you," Sherlock said. He looked into John's eyes with a fragile smile. It was a smile that could easily be removed with the amount of effort it took to put it on. And upon staring at this, John felt a pang of guilt come over him. Sherlock really did trust him. He regretted ever looking into his journal.

He focused on Sherlock's facial expression as he moved his hands around Sherlock's hips. Sherlock looked attentively at John's actions, face nonchalant. He was analyzing what was to happen next. He never protested but he seemed to be too nervous internally to say anything against him.

He thought about stopping but his desire to please Sherlock won him over. John kissed Sherlock again. He slowly slid his hands around Sherlock's waist as he did so, only leaning to unbuckle the man's belt when they paused. He could sense Sherlock's body becoming tenser as John pulled down his trousers. Slowly nevertheless effortlessly, John slipped his hand between Sherlock's lowers thighs, gliding his way up to his member. Sherlock jumped as John's hands lingered longer, slightly squeezing it.

John felt his face turn red as he felt Sherlock's now quickening breath on his neck.

He noticed that Sherlock was mouthing something to himself, eyes screwed shut. John took his time; he wanted Sherlock to feel this for as long as possible. Even more he wanted to taste Sherlock. He wanted to take him into his mouth. But he wanted to know how Sherlock felt before doing so.

"Sherlock," John whispered. "How does it feel?"

Sherlock didn't reply but just moaned loudly.

John then reached inside his underwear, twirling his fingers around the head of Sherlock's member.

Sherlock began leaning himself hard against the wall as if the sensation was almost too much for him.

Kissing him one more time, he moved to kneel on the ground between Sherlock's shivering thighs. He could tell that Sherlock was a little discomfited. Locking eyes, John engulfed Sherlock's half hard cock in his mouth, holding down his hip with one hand and using the other to prepare Sherlock again. Sherlock yelped almost as instant as John's wet mouth made contact with him. The moist hot feeling of Sherlock's member nearly drove him just as untamed and he felt Sherlock buck up into his mouth eagerly, gripping John's hair. John's eagerness to continue was marked by the heavy flow of salivation from his mouth.

Sherlock moaned loudly, barely containing it against his lips. Sherlock's reactions to the hand job had been nothing that John had expected. He expected Sherlock to be quiet and still throughout but the man was more than loud and squeamish. John could feel himself going crazy as he watched Sherlock throw his head back repeatedly, moaning as if he couldn't control himself.

The bucking was rhythmic up until the end. Over the last few moments Sherlock had tried taking himself away in which John pushed himself forward. Sherlock released himself quickly and John pulled away

His breath was quick as he took in more after being tired from his submissive duty.

"John…" Sherlock trailed off, body still quivering from his release. Sherlock was mouthing something again but John couldn't make out the words. Sherlock's knees buckled under him and John led him into his bed realizing how tired he must have been.

He lied there awake next to Sherlock, not needing the sleep after his afternoon nap—he suddenly realized what Sherlock had been mouthing silently to himself.

And He didn't know why. He didn't know what for. But He had kept apologizing


	7. Chapter 7

Lestrade's visits had become more frequent much to John's slight displeasure. His jealousy had all but subsided but that wasn't the main reason in the slightest. He couldn't help but feel like a third wheel.

Much to his surprise and relief, Greg had left earlier that day instead of stay

And every time he was around the more that he felt like he should thrill Sherlock.

"R…right now?" Sherlock had asked when John was giving obvious signs. "It's only—."

"I know what time it is and I don't care."

"Okay." Sherlock's typing pace increased dramatically until he was done.

He had grown somewhat addicted to the feeling of Sherlock in his mouth. Whether it be through his mouth or his member. It was hard not to. It gave him pleasure to be able to arouse the movements and sounds he could make Sherlock do from the actions caused by him. From a man who hid his humanity effortlessly, seeing this side to him made John feel like he had a special place in Sherlock's labyrinth and cold place of a mind palace.

It had been like this over the past few days. Sherlock would come home with Lestrade and once the other man left, he would pleasure him. And Sherlock moaned and squirmed every single time, sometimes grabbing John's hair in an attempt to make it come faster, sometimes screaming John's name in an attempt to control the burning sensation that etched its way along his skin.

John knew that's what Sherlock felt; he had felt that feeling before and he never failed in making Sherlock feel the same way and relive it every single time he enclosed his mouth on him.

He smiled whenever Sherlock screamed and let go and when Sherlock was too weak to move from the effects of it. And doing it this time was just as good as the last.

They had moved from the walls to the bed finally and John lied their as he watched Sherlock struggle to put his trousers back on. He had always done this which confused John.

John was going to tell him that he didn't need to put his pants back on immediately but he decided not to. Sherlock was still getting the hang of things and it was kind of adorable to watch.

One thing that Sherlock also did every time was leave or find something to do immediately after. He didn't mean it in a purposeful way, (he knew that Sherlock was not used to such things), but it was still something that peeved him. Sherlock's fluctuations of living from the fast life to the slow was apparent.

For once, John wanted to catch him in the slow in the midst of such inconsistency.

"Come back into bed." John said.

Sherlock looked up at him in an adorable scowl. "Why… do I have to?"

"Why not?"

"Are you planning on…doing it _again_?" Sherlock asked in confusion.

"No no." John said. "I just want you to lie here with me."

Sherlock's confused face creased further and John couldn't help but give an exasperated laugh. Explaining something like affection to Sherlock was almost as difficult as telling a child about the birds and the bees.

"So I just return to my previous position." Sherlock said.

John nodded.

"And just lie there." Sherlock said, trying to confirm his statements.

John nodded again.

There was a pause and John was beginning to question if he had made a mistake for even asking.

"What would be the purpose of that?" Sherlock asked, staring blankly at John.

"Sherlock for goodness's sake." John rolled his eyes.

"You want me to…cuddle?" Sherlock dragged out the last word obviously showing how abstract it was to him. "Is that what you want me to do?"

"Well," John said. "Yes."

"Didn't we already do that before?" Sherlock asked.

"No," John replied. "That was you falling asleep and me taking you to bed. Not the same Sherlock."

"Cuddling's boring."

"You've never even done it before Sherlock."

"Yes but I already deduced that—."

"Sherlock I think you owe me this one favor after I've spent the past few days kissing, stroking, and top of that—s."

"Don't!" Sherlock interjected then calmly sighed "…say it out loud. I'll do the _cuddling_."

Sherlock looked at John one more time before attending the bed with him once again. John could feel the taller man's body, thin and stiff but surprisingly still warm from the encounter. It took moments before he eased himself into John's body.

Their limbs had not entangled yet but this was enough to placate John's ambiguous feelings. Sherlock was not looking at him. Rather he rested his head on John's chest, the rest of his long body curling into a fetal position.

He could hear Sherlock mumbling to himself. "It beats so fast." John heard Sherlock quietly say. He decided not to question it. He just lied their enjoying the man's touch.

Sherlock then spoke up.

"Give me your hand."

"What?" John said, snapping out of the sinking feeling he was beginning to feel from the serenity.

"Give me your hand."

John slid his hand down to Sherlock's hand. His hand was still shaking.

"S'what people do isn't it?" Sherlock said slower but not for John's clarity it seemed. It seemed like he was trying to get closer to John as well. And he wasn't going to stop him.

Their fingers were now entangled and this would have been the time for John to relax some more but the shaking was starting to get to him. It reminded him so much of his own shaking that occurred.

"Why do they shake so much?" John whispered.

Sherlock didn't answer. Instead he said his name.

"John…"

"What?" John asked, confused at Sherlock's odd tone.

Sherlock sighed. "Does it bother you when I don't do those things back to you?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean when you…" Sherlock's voice trailed off, the sentence obviously nagging at his mind.

It was then that John had understood what Sherlock meant.

"No," John replied quickly and truthfully.

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably again and asked. "Are you sure?"

"Are you kidding?" John asked in an incredulous tone. "I like making you feel good. It doesn't matter what I feel. As long as I make you happy. Because you mean a lot to me." John instantly regretted saying what he said when he felt Sherlock's shift in his calm body language. He wanted to say something along those lines but he felt that his word choice, though true in every way, made it sound a lot more trite than he had expected.

He looked up at Sherlock, unbeknownst of what his reaction would be.

Sherlock had just rolled his eyes. "Oh, shut up," he said. "You didn't have to say all that. It was a yes or no question. How the hell am I supposed to reply to that?"

John felt his face become hot when Sherlock replied but then caught a glimpse of the taller man's smile before replying, "Okay sorry. Just saying the truth."

John chuckled at Sherlock's exasperated groan in response to John's purposeful unwarranted adulation. It was then that the two heard rumbling coming from the outside and could hear slight rain tapping.

John heard it approaching. "Huh, another storm is coming." He was surprised he hadn't realized it sooner.

Sherlock didn't say anything but began going back to his stiff position on the bed. Was it because of the storm or because of how long they had been laying there?

How long was he planning this go on for? "A…are we going to sleep like this?"

"Don't play daft. I'm only staying in this position for as long as you want me to."

"Really?" John replied jokingly. "What _would_ you do if I made you stay here until night?"

"Think."

"Think?" John asked. "Even for the entirety of the afternoon?"

"Don't see why this surprises you," Sherlock chimed. "Besides I'm not going to sleep tonight."

"What?" John asked incredulously. "Why?" Sherlock had been doing so well over the past few days. He had been sleeping and eating normally without John's request and now it seemed like he was going to start all over before he went back to normal. The thought of seeing Sherlock as pale and thin as he had before made him almost shiver. When Sherlock starved it meant he didn't care. About anything. He didn't care about his own life. Or about John. He wondered. Did Sherlock even care about John now?

"If you're worried about me moving away from this position, I can stay like this all night if you want," Sherlock said, clearly oblivious at the reason of John's concern. "But I won't go to sleep."

"What–." John asked.

Sherlock interrupted. "Don't ask what you're about to."

"You don't even know what I was going to say."

"Yes, I do."

"Right," John said in slight annoyance. "Because you're Sherlock Holmes and you know everything."

"Oh John, you know me so well." Sherlock said, obviously ignoring John's sympathy. "You're worried about my eating and sleeping habits. Once again you and Lestrade are so incredibly predicable."

"And about the storm."

Sherlock cocked his head to the side.

"The storm. It's the reason why you're not going to sleep…isn't it? Why your hands shake?" John whispered. John could think of no other reason as to why Sherlock would have such a deep fear in such a natural occurence but he did think that his wanting to stay awake and his shaking hands showed it.

Sherlock's features suddenly turned darker and he broke eye contact with John.

In order to prove his point, John said "the other night. You were…"

Sherlock groaned, turning away mumbling something to himself.

"You know," John began, slightly backing away from him. "You can't always just block out everyone's concern."

"Oh but I can," Sherlock said, trying to coin his sarcastic tone once again but failing.

"No," John said in a little more aggressive tone. "No you can't Sherlock." John, by now, had completely backed away from Sherlock. He wanted to show him he was serious. He wanted to show his passion.

"Fine. In regards to your statement, yes I'm very much aware of what happened the other night. I'm not going to forget screaming at the top of my lungs for hours during a storm the night after I find out my older brother stood by while I was raped for weeks on end."

The sudden statement Sherlock said caught John off guard. There was no way he could reply to it. "So what about it?" Sherlock continued. "What are your theories? That maybe my sudden fear of storms is a reawakening from pent up psychological regression? Or perhaps that it was a fear that had just started because of the new case? You don't know henceforth. It. Doesn't. Matter."

"Sherlock…" Everything was frightening about the statement. The fact that Sherlock said it so calmly. Bluntly.

"It's not anything that you need to know."

"You're right," John gulped before continuing. "I don't need to know anything about you. But I want to." John's frustration as becoming more obvious but he didn't care. "Why do you think I've been asking you to open up lately? Don't you at least understand that humans, the creatures you're so intrigued in analyzing just want to know things about one another to get closer or goodness forbid wanting to help?"

Sherlock looked as is his breath had caught in his throat. "Why?"

John sighed. "Look. It's hard to explain—."

"No I meant why do you care so much?" Sherlock asked, turning to look at John.

His tone held one of true confusion.

"Why do you and Greg care so much?" He said sluggishly and smooth.

It was almost tragic to hear. Sherlock had been so unused to any type of sympathy that the very act of him was almost frightening to him.

And the worst part of all was that John had no answer. No answer but to get frustrated at the man.

John felt his chest starting to ache.

"The storm's coming closer." Sherlock said, looking out the window. "A physical force I can't outrun."

Sherlock leaned his head against the big window, sighing. John felt his heart sank as he saw his submission against his fear. It made him John feel like there was nothing that he could do to make him feel better.

"Sherlock?"

"Storm ends tomorrow John. I'll sleep then." Sherlock said. "But I won't sleep tonight." He then corrected himself. "I can't sleep tonight."

"What is it you see? During storms?" John asked.

Sherlock bit his bottom lip, and it seemed like he was physically being drained as he stared put the window. It was then that John realized how pale the consulting detective was. The only part of the body that seemed to stand out from him was his dark curly hair along with his piercing gray eyes that eyed the outside world beyond the window with dread.

A loud thunderous sound boomed through the apartment which made Sherlock's body shake.

"Sherlock if you need help" John whispered

"The handkerchief." Sherlock whispered to himself.

"What?" John stuttered.

"John." Sherlock asks "How did you know that the handkerchief would calm me that day?" Sherlock's voice was soft and smooth, never increasing in volume. John couldn't tell if it was because of his serenity of the moment or if Sherlock's fear sucked out every other emotion, exhausting him internally.

"I…just," John said hesitantly, not knowing the right thing to say.

"There are many other ways to comfort someone." Sherlock whispered through clenched teeth. "A screaming person…you chose that method. Why?" Sherlock turned around; facing the shorter man who was now couldn't say anything. John felt fear like no other as Sherlock looked at him with the stare that held the gaze of anticipation.

He couldn't lie. He was Sherlock Holmes.

John stood there and stared. He couldn't say anything. The ache in his chest became worse.

"I never told anyone." Sherlock said. "Perfect strategy. I don't tell you what you want so you read through my notebook?"

"Sherlock—."

"No…" Sherlock said to himself rather than to John. He got up and walked into the living room in a great haste, directly moving towards the desk where he had kept the many notes from the case. "That couldn't be it. You've done this way before you requested to open up a few days ago hadn't you?"

Sherlock grinned. John's heart began to pound so hard that he felt that it was about to burst. Sherlock brought out the journal, quickly flipping through the pages in frenzy, his grin widening the more he reread its many contents. "Oh what fun you must have had reading this" Sherlock yelled sarcastically.

"I didn't mean it in any…"

"Was it before or after Mycroft's visit?" Sherlock asked.

John's jaw locked, and the feeling of his teeth clenching began to pain him. He was frightened. He internally begged for Sherlock to say his true feelings. His unauthentic smile was haunting. Sherlock could keep his tone calm and grin but it couldn't contain the amount of anger that was in his grey orbs or his clenched hands. "I'm sorry…"

"Was. It. Before. Or after. Mycroft's visit?"

John hesitated and relented, whispering, "Before."

Sherlock turned, running his hands over his face, laughing incredulously. "Should have known."

"Sherlock…." John squeezed out the only sensible thing to say, "I'm sorry—."

"Spare me." Sherlock replied in scorn.

"Sherlock."

"You're **not** sorry." Sherlock said with a voice so sharp that it seemed to have the intention of digging into John's throat. Sherlock laughed bitterly again. "I'm used to people like you. I'm so used to people like you."

"What…what do you mean?" John said, tears welling up in his eyes.

"People who feel like their actions are justifiable." Sherlock said, his tone still as calm as before. "People like Mycroft who used competitiveness of rankings and resentment to justify ignoring cries for help of rape and torture and my parents who used the excuse of our family's economic state not to believe their youngest son." Sherlock said, not stopping once to take a breath.

"But you already know this don't you John? Because you've read the journal. You read all the details and now you feel like your actions of even getting that far into the journal are justified because of the way you facilitated me the other night with the handkerchief and preceding to that moment you justified opening it in the first place by how I let you on details about the case. Your request for me to tell you more things earlier was nothing more of a way for you to ease the guilt you felt when you read everything that happened so that you could feel that either way, you would have known so that there was no harm done in reading such contents. You don't care John Watson. You never had. Accurate deductions they are aren't they? Need I continue?"

Sherlock had slowly made his way up to John.

"You have nothing to say for yourself?" Sherlock asked in a hushed tone. Sherlock was so close to the shorter man that he could feel the warmth of his breath which amplified the seemingly suppressed anger.

John closed his eyes. He didn't want to watch Sherlock's internal struggle in hiding his true feelings. John had worked so hard to enter Sherlock and now he was being pushed back again.

And it was his fault. The amount of information that Sherlock had told him willingly was worth way more than snooping around.

He could feel Sherlock bending over next to his ear. "Open your eyes John." He whispered in a tone that seemed to be calm enough to give the impression that he was not angry at all.

John stood still, not listening to what Sherlock had said. He couldn't look at Sherlock while he was in such a state.

"**OPEN YOUR EYES**," Sherlock screamed, making John wince in pain from his ear. John submitted to Sherlock's request, opening his stinging tear filled eyes to gaze at the broken man that stood before him. Broken was the only word to describe him. Not damaged by the actual event that took place in the school although it was something horrific for him to go through. But this was a different type of damage, caused by endless lines of betrayal that he had somewhat knowingly become assimilated to.

It hurt. It burned at John's chest as he realized that he was now categorized in the same place as Mycroft and his parents. The only person left to betray Sherlock Holmes was Greg Lestrade but john knew that would never happen. Unlike him, Greg was actually loyal to him.

He was now staring in the face that was now hollow of any happiness. It was ironic how John had looked into the eyes of people twisting in agony and was perfectly okay with their twisted agony as he did his job. But not as he looked into Sherlock's eyes he felt nauseous. John felt like he ruined any single chance of Sherlock to feel serenity.

"I…trusted you." Sherlock expressed amusement as if it was something he shouldn't have done. As if trusting someone was an inconceivable notion. "Mistakes mistakes."

Sherlock turned away from John, letting out a strangled cry of frustration making John's body wince at the intensity. The immensity of it seemed to be strong enough to burst through his chest. Maybe it would have, if it wasn't choked down so exigently.

It was one of the worst sounds John had ever heard.

The tears that welled up in the taller man's eyes seemed to stem from the force from holding it in rather than the feebleness of letting it out. Sherlock didn't want him to see him cry.

"No…" John squeezed out through his tears' attempt to smuggle his voice into silence. "No you're wrong."

Sherlock turned to look at him and John froze. Sherlock was shaking as he stared

"You're wrong Sherlock. You're wrong." John said, words fractured as he began to sob, attempting to convince himself more than Sherlock. "I'm not like them—not like them. I really do care about you."

"And…I'm sorry." John didn't know whether or not he was talking out loud anymore.

Sherlock stared at him for what seemed to be like the longest time, refusing to let the words sink in.

"And," John choked out. "I…I love you."

He couldn't say anything to defend himself as he watched Sherlock's body walk to his room.

Because in a way, Sherlock was right.


	8. Chapter 8

John felt his heart sink when he heard the slamming of the door. He knew that he couldn't say anything. When Sherlock went into his room he needed to be alone, otherwise he would have stayed in the living room like most of the other times he wasn't asleep. And that was the subject of John's thoughts. What was Sherlock occupying himself with as the uneasiness grow exponentially? Perhaps he just sat there.

Perhaps he was once again working on the case where John wasn't there. This thought was ruled out, however, when he noticed that all the notes were where they were left. Even the notebook, which was carelessly thrown onto the floor in a fit of anger, was scattered amongst them.

Whatever Sherlock was doing in there, John could tell that he was restless, as if the taller man's auras seeped through the shut door—the door that was slammed to seal John out.

At first John had thought that Sherlock had fallen asleep until he heard the sound emanate from the room—the sound of the taller man's violin. It took him a while to realize that it was indeed the sound. The complex melodies had surprisingly lit up leisurely with the sound of Sherlock's violin.

Sherlock's eerie silence greatly contrasted with his music that bled everywhere. If not for the situation John would have called it serene since the music was in fact beautiful and the thought of Sherlock leaning his head against the wooden instrument as his long trained fingers pressed against the strings proved enough to be the only positive thought that John could think of the situation.

Every other thought had weighed him down and pounded furiously in his chest along with his heart.

Even as his eyes began to sting with tears and his throat began to tighten with his strangled sobs, he could only lie down sideways on the couch, clutching his churning stomach as he internally begged for Sherlock to forgive him.

John felt himself wake up by a seemingly unknown force.

The temperature drop in the house was more than John had expected. He felt his skin which was now rough with goose bumps, tingle with every movement he made in his wake. He knew the rain would have some affect on the heat but the amount that it had dropped made him shiver and yearn for some warmth. He had yet to adjust the air conditioning after all and he worried about Sherlock's feeling of kindliness as well.

Had he even left the room after John had fallen asleep? John's face grew hot as he imagined Sherlock looking at him while he lay pathetically on the couch, arms hugging its own body.

He thought of laying back down on the couch until morning but it was then that he realized how uncomfortable it had been to be doing such after he had gotten so used to being in the same bed as Sherlock for the past few weeks.

It wasn't only the thick comforters and 400 sheet thread count that made the bed an easier place to ensconce in, but the fact that Sherlock lied next to him.

Thoughts going back to how comfortable the two men finally were with lying in the same bed, the realization of what John had done hit him with full force.

He wasn't going to sleep in the same bed with Sherlock anymore. He wasn't going to be able to be close enough to kiss his long pale neck or thread his fingers through his spiraling brown hair. He probably won't be able to be in the same flat with him anymore, forced to go into a different building altogether. Or perhaps Sherlock would forgive him and they could go back to the way things were…but John laughed bitterly at the last assumption not only by its falseness but also by it cruel absurdity which stopped him from thinking of any other possible positive conclusions.

John shivered again. Maybe the cold was subconscious; the sudden feeling of cold could have been caused by heavy amount of guilt that clawed at his skin and gripped at his tight throat.

John sat up to get better air intake and realized how dark the room was.

Yes, it was night and the dark shouldn't have shocked him as much as it did, but he could have sworn that he had left the light on however.

Had Sherlock came out to turn it off?

He slowly stood up, feeling around the living room for the light switch. When he felt the little plastic lever in his hand he flicked it up and down, only to find out that the light stayed off regardless. There had been another power outage.

John cursed silently to himself. He was getting tired of the complex's constant problems with its luminosity from the slightest of storms. In fact, he was going to call the bleeding landlady tomorrow. Mrs. Hudson was her name right?

Just as he predicted, there was a storm just as bad as a few nights before. It was just as threatening but with the absence of loud thunder, which now came as slower and lower intervals. It was then that John realized what the "unknown force" had been. He had been awaken by the thunder's rumbling and was now forced to stay this way for the remainder of the night. It was one of the moments he hated being a light sleeper. It irritated him.

Or was there another reason why he couldn't make himself go back to sleep? John looked at the illuminated clock. What was he to do now? John felt the tension in his shoulders and stretched. Of course he shouldn't have felt surprised at feeling such tension in his muscles, for he was only feeling the effects of his muscle memory as the sounds that his body frequently mistake to be the booming war.

Then it came to him. The reason why he was acting like was the guilt that ate at him from earlier. He was genuinely overwhelmed with guilt.

But he felt obligated to go to the man's room just in case the thunder became as loud as the other day.

However, no matter how much his mind told him to, his body refused to carry out the action of infiltrating the taller man's room, infidel to the thought that Sherlock might have forgiven him. The very idea was abject and unbelievable in its manner.

That was, until John finally relented when he decided that making his way to Sherlock's room would be to the other man's benefit since the ever growing sound of thunder, which rumbled in the distance of the dark sky was to slowly increase in sound.

He shivered as he remembered Sherlock's screams echoing throughout the flat and increased in pace.

Even if it wasn't in Sherlock's best interest to see him, John would still make it known that he wanted to be there for him. He wondered, would Sherlock push him away or would he react positively to John's pathetic attempts.

Perhaps he would go to his room and sit at the opposite side of the door for hours again. Or maybe he would actually accompany the man inside the room. His limps ached to hold the taller man once more.

His heart even more when he realized the slimness of the chances of that ever happening again.

He wondered if Sherlock hated him. The very thought brought tears to his eyes but he wiped them away before his thoughts ventured further into what the consulting detective would think of him.

Sherlock's indignation was more than forgivable. In fact, John's thoughts wondered into a different direction: what he would have felt if Sherlock went through his mind

John didn't own a journal and the act of him letting people know what he was thinking inside and on his convoluted mind was a rarity. He hadn't even told Sherlock anything besides the fact that he sometimes had nightmares of the war. He hadn't told Sherlock how it was a constant struggle every day to keep himself under control so that he wouldn't lash out. He hadn't told Sherlock that some of the wounds he had sustained at the war were purposeful because of his guilt he felt at the actions when he wasn't able to treat someone.

These were things that he was pretty sure that Sherlock could figure out anyway if he stared and analyze John long enough but that was it. Sherlock had never done so.

Sherlock had did so to many strangers he had encountered in the past and people he had worked cases with. However, Sherlock had never did that to John outside of the initial meeting and outside of mediocre things such as what he had eaten for lunch or how upset he was with the consulting detective. Yet, John had read through Sherlock's journal countless of times.

Guilt nearly burnt a whole through his chest. It was then that the very first flash of lightening was made.

The apartment shook once again and John screwed his eyes as he got ready to hear the sound of thunder and then Sherlock's shouting following suit. But he heard nothing. The threatening light of sparkled again.

The electricity was still down but the repetitive lightning flashes brightened up the whole complex with a frightening blaze of white so bright that it made the darkness that came after it much more threatening.

Sherlock on his mind, John rushed over to the taller man's room. He hadn't known why he was so nervous for him all of a sudden. Perhaps it was because of the delayed reaction of what he was expecting.

But it could have easily been Sherlock being asleep instead of awake to witness the storm. However that idea was shot down for two reasons: the first being that Sherlock was a lighter sleeper than he, the second reason being that Sherlock had told John that afternoon that he wasn't going to sleep that night.

He had basically swore it. The fear that was in the taller man's eyes showed how unwilling he was to slip into the temporary realm of unconsciousness as the storm drew closer. And because of this, John knew that his sudden pinnacle of worry was more than justifiable

As he approached the door, however, he noticed something strange. Sherlock's door was already open. Wide open. A wave of uneasiness crept up inside him, filling him with dread.

Had he left? Maybe he was in the bathroom. In the hallway with him perhaps? Had he somehow missed it?

John turned around and walked the opposite direction of the now blinking hallway. Halfway down, he saw a dark shadow in the kitchen that had the same form of Sherlock. He nearly ran up to him and hugged him. He would have apologized. He would have begged for his forgiveness, but something felt off.

Something about Sherlock's image in the kitchen set off his fight or flight instinct, leaving him frozen to the figure in the kitchen.

Flash.

The apartment was once again illuminated with the burst of exploding light and John discovered that he had every right to feel uneasy. When the lightning flashed, he saw Sherlock with a knife in his hand, his skin looked even paler. John didn't know if this was because of the white light or because it fit so well with the man's now threatening demeanor. The man was not facing him but he still felt terror.

Traumatized by what he saw in the darkness, John began to panic. He felt his heart sank even further as the darkness enveloped him. There were so many questions that were going through his head. Why was Sherlock so fearless and why was he out of his room? Most importantly: What was he doing with a knife?

When the lightning came back on, John gasped loudly. Sherlock had turned to face him.

John felt his body shake as he stepped backwards, gaze not leaving the taller man's both from fear and transfixion. _Okay, _John thought to himself. _All he had to do_ was walk slowly to Sherlock and ease the weapon out of his hand and find out what exactly he was feeling. He had been in the crying army for goodness's sake! He had dealt with this before.

Yet…as the darkness came once again…all of the veteran's courage left him.

He could tell that Sherlock was moving, but he didn't know where and he didn't know what to.

_Flash_

The consulting detective was nowhere to be found…in the initial spot that John had found him in at least.

The shorter man's breathing was so intense that it was audible even in the sounds of the tapping rain and low rumbles of cyclical thunder. Had Sherlock gotten over his fear that quickly? Maybe his sudden courage was motivated by…John stopped that thought in its tracks. There was no way that Sherlock would want to harm in such a manner if at all.

Not only because of their history, but because Sherlock rarely harmed anyone physically unless he really needed to. Unless he was feeling threatened by someone else physically. Other than that he had always thought that harming someone from the inside out was a more effective and easier way to bring down his opponents.

The history between them was still questionable evidence because of the recent events.

He certainly knew the second reason was a factor. But the question till remained. Why the knife?

John no longer knew what was safe or not as the lightening continued to flash. The light meant that _Sherlock_ could see _him_. The darkness meant that _he_ couldn't see _Sherlock_.

And regardless of how confident he was in Sherlock's inability to cause him ANY sort of physical harm, the situation where he couldn't see the person carrying a weapon threatened him.

Thinking this, John jerked his body around in different directions in an attempt to locate the taller man and finally figure what was going on. He tried to call out for his name but it came out as a barely audible whisper.

The lightening had flashed again, seemingly trying to help him in his conquest, only to go out. Right at the moment John had located him again. Right at the moment their eyes met. His eyes were so cold. So emotionless. So dark. John cursed out of frustration again, feeling the spike in emotion causing tears to fall. He didn't want to jump to the previous conclusion but he knew that he had to get away from him.

He tiptoed to the opposite end of where he had seen Sherlock standing. The constant flashing of light had made his eyes unadjusted to the darkness and he felt around aimlessly until he touched a wall.

_Flash_

Sherlock was heading towards him now, in slow unwavering steps. John gasped and walked away from his path, feeling Sherlock's eyes bore into him even as the darkness came once again.

_Flash_

When the lightning ripped light through the windows, he couldn't find Sherlock. John quickly turned around, looking for a way to find himself a safe and hidden place so that he could think things through properly and find out what the hell was going on with the taller man. Right then, he saw Sherlock at the proximity of the couch.

He was looking at John with those eyes again. Eyes that seemed to dispel all sentiment he once had for John.

It then came. The loud clap had dominated the roaring of the thunder, shaking the house out of the many booms that came before it. John looked up at Sherlock, whose feet seemed to stop almost instant at the thunder's sound. The taller man halted.

John finally had the courage to look into his eyes again and as he did, he noticed Sherlock's eyes turned from cold to fear that almost seemed childlike.

Sherlock, in his attempts to run from the omnificent force, lost his balance. Sherlock tumbled to the ground, only after making heavy contact with the wall which interrupted his arbitrary path of escape. Sherlock had sunk from the wall all the way to the bottom, where he instantly curled himself into a ball as he buried his face within his thighs.

John's body still trembled but he felt his fear disappear almost instantly.

_Flash_

When the lightning flashed again, Sherlock was still in the same position, making another whimpering noise. The thunder made another booming noise, making Sherlock's sniveling amplify into loud sobs. John knew no matter how scared he was of the current situation, he had to help him out.

He sat, shaking, the fear seeming to leap out of him.

The knife was no longer in his hand. It rested by his side.

John walked closer to him, stopping short of his destination when he realized that the inconsistent lighting would stop him from examining Sherlock properly. He had to get his flashlight. John rolled his eyes when he realized that he could have gotten it a long time ago. Looks like fear was enough to make an ex army doctor like himself, conditioned to be used to such scenarios, irrational.

As he went to go to the area of the flashlight, he felt his foot gave out beneath him, the rest of his body following suit as he collided with the floor with a harsh thud. Having fallen headfirst, John felt dizzy but not disoriented to the point where he wouldn't know the reason why he fell.

He felt Sherlock's hand on his ankle as well as the rejuvenation of his fear.

"Sherlock…" John whispered as he realized how hard it was to speak with the growing pain in his chest that he realized had collided with the floor just as hard as his head had. Adrenaline pumped through his veins as he kicked away Sherlock hands, ignoring the screams of the taller man as he desperately tried to crawl away.

John had nearly slipped again on something on the floor. Warm and wet.

_Flash_

The lightning flashed again, illuminating the pool of blood that lied beneath him confirming his fear. It was all over the floor boards. On his palms. Now on his chest. He was bleeding? Had he really knocked his head that hard?

The sight of his blood made the fear increase and the thought of Sherlock not being able to harm him seemed to bleed out with his blood.

The darkness came again. John started crawling again faster, his movements becoming more and more frantic as he heard Sherlock's footsteps behind him. Hearing Sherlock's footsteps, he desperately crawled away from him, trying to increase the space between them.

_Flash_

The light flashed back again, stretching Sherlock's shadow in front of him to unimaginable proportions. Trying his best not to let out a cry at the screaming pain in his head, (which seemed to amplify with the pounding sounds of the rain), John clawed at the floor and made it back to Sherlock's room. Again, panic took over him as the darkness fell right when he reached his destination and closed the door.

_Flash_

The light flashed again and he saw the shadow of Sherlock feet through the bottom of the door. So many questions went through his mind. What was he going to do now? Where would he go? Was he really going to hurt him? Maybe…maybe…kill him?

He thought himself foolish to think such a possibility but he couldn't really conjure up sane thoughts at the moment. "Please Sherlock," he begged in a loud strangled whisper as darkness descended on him once again. He waited for what seemed like an eternity before he could catch his breath to speak again. "Don't…don't hurt me. Please."

John laid his back against the door, bracing himself for when Sherlock would fling open the door and attack him. He screwed her eyes shut and waited, feeling anticipation making him feel nauseous. After a few seconds he heard a rustle under the door.

He nearly jumped at its normalcy. When he looked at the bottom of the door, he saw something white and folded.

He hesitated.

John reached for it, noticing the softness. It was the last thing that he had expected to see.

It was his handkerchief. Sherlock was giving it back to him. He might not have been trying to hurt him after all but he kept the door closed regardless. Another thunder clap made him jump. Once again, he heard Sherlock cry out over on the other side of the door and felt a growing sympathy from him.

Maybe he _should_ open the door and assist Sherlock through the night with his fear. The knife. What about it? He had remembered hearing the clinging of the knife dropping. Hadn't he?

After a few moments of contemplation, John opened the door, thinking of comforting him.

This was when he noticed Sherlock was gone.

John cursed at himself for his long pause of indecisiveness that allowed for Sherlock to once again get away from his reach. He stood up and looked for Sherlock all over the complex, feeling his injured head pounding as the dizziness made the situation even more surreal.

Sherlock was nowhere to be found. He wasn't in the hallway, restroom, or the kitchen and the last flicker of hope he had left when he noticed that he wasn't in the living room as well. _This_ he knew because the room door to the downstairs was open.

It took John a while to realize where Sherlock could have gone, instantly taking the same path, following with more alertness than his pounding head would have wanted.

But John wasn't fast enough. He saw that the front door was open.

Without waiting, he ran outside, not caring if he got wet in the rain or hell even struck by lightning.

He screamed in frustration. Sherlock was long gone. "Sherlock!" he yelled. He had been so close to making a connection with him. THIS was all his damn fault. All of it. Breaking down in tears, he called out his name again. "Sherlock!"

Another flash of lightning, outside, made the situation seem more surreal, made his vision go back to how he had seen Sherlock in the complex, made a memory crawl its way back into his mind. He remembered the first time he betrayed Sherlock. The first time he kept digging even though the information given was a lot to someone like Sherlock. If he had just left it alone, he wouldn't be like this. He wouldn't be as confused as to why everyone he seemed to meet had nothing but wicked and selfish intentions to offer him. He wouldn't have to run away from John like he had now. Or run into his very fear to avoid John's presence.

"Sherlock!"


End file.
